


a study in tenderness

by spadebrigade



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Art, Artist Asahi, AsaNoya - Freeform, Azumane Asahi & Akaashi Keiji Friendship, Background Relationships, Bisexual Nishinoya Yuu, Depression, Eventual Fluff, Hispanic Nishinoya, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Nishinoya, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadebrigade/pseuds/spadebrigade
Summary: Years after graduating from an esteemed art university, Asahi has quit painting. Without purpose or inspiration, he lives in a world turned gray. But when former classmate Nishinoya bursts into his life, Asahi just might consider picking up a brush and finding life’s colors.A story about art, mental illness, and love. Also, a flower shop/tattoo parlor AU gone deep.
Relationships: Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu
Comments: 54
Kudos: 106
Collections: Asanoya (main pairing)





	1. trompe l’oeil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _trompe l’oeil:_ noun. french for “deceive the eye”;
> 
> a technique that makes painted objects seem three-dimensional or makes them appear bigger than in reality. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone~ this story has been in the works for a while, but since i noticed that asanoya week was coming up, i decided i HAD to post the first part for day 6’s tattoo parlor/flower shop prompt. please enjoy! 
> 
> images of the mentioned flowers are linked, and see the end for some cool art!

Gray.

As Asahi blinked awake from a night of restless sleep, his eyes found the colorless ceiling. He knew that it was actually white, but the heavy curtains covering his windows filtered out the light, leaving his ceiling gray. A muted gray, with no personality. With nothing going for it.

He reminded himself to take a deep breath, to hollow out his chest and slowly inflate it with air. To fill these empty spaces that always seemed to be lacking something.

It was worse today, he realized. He was feeling extra shitty.

Crap. He’d forgotten to refill his meds. He should have known better. Just as he was about to go off on himself for being irresponsible, he heard the echo of his therapist’s voice in the back of his head, telling him that no one is perfect.

She was right, but that didn’t make it any easier.

…Wasn’t it too early to be thinking about this anyway? He turned his head to his phone, looking at the time. His 7:45 am alarm was to go off in a few minutes. He turned it off.

His bones felt drenched with this feeling of nothingness, but he did his best to push it down, to sit up and be a person. To stand up, to walk slowly to what he called his Happy Room. To push aside the avalanche of thoughts and worries about what he had to do today, the emails he needed to reply to, the groceries he needed to buy. To once again take a deep breath and settle on his yoga mat and let the nice lady on Youtube talk him through a calming twenty minutes of muscle-straining poses until he wiped off the sweat and turned to his plants.

His plants were half the point of the Happy Room, but they were not very happy themselves. He couldn’t stop his heart from sinking at the sight of their browning leaves. What was he doing wrong? They had enough water and sunlight. He even made sure to fertilize them and check their soil acidity. It was almost like they didn’t _want_ to be alive.

He reached for the bag of fertilizer, only to realize that it was almost empty. “All right, I’ll get you guys food today. Try to hold on a little longer.”

He’d have to leave the apartment today. Both for the sake of his plants, and his meds. Though the meds should probably come first, he decided.

It was times like this he was grateful for his anxiety. Because while the depression made him want to not do anything at all for himself, his anxiety pushed him to at least look decent so that when he left the apartment, he wouldn’t be the victim of disapproving stares. Which was why he managed to wash up and change his clothes, grabbing a breakfast of a single cup of coffee before heading out.

♤

Asahi’s empty fridge forced him to go grocery shopping, which was how he ended up milling through the aisles, grumbling internally about his life choices. Cooking was hard, and he couldn't order takeout for the fourth time this week—he was a twenty-six year old who shouldn’t still be eating like a college student. 

Which led him to his current dilemma.

There was only one bag of rice left—the last one in the entire store. Asahi stared at it, hand pressed over his mouth. Should he take it? He definitely needed it—his cupboards were bare and his fridge was empty, save for half-empty bottles of condiments. But it was the last one. What if someone else needed it? Like a working mother with four children. He could ask an employee if there was more in the back, but he’d worked retail before. There was never more in the back.

His eyes shifted around the aisle. There was nobody around. No one else was staring at this bag of rice, except him. It’d be fine if he took it, right? It was rice—there had to be more in the store somewhere. 

Satisfied with his decision, he lifted the bag into his shopping basket—

“Asahi-san?”

He jumped, immediately turning to the voice and bowing in apology. “I’m so sorry, you can have the rice—”

His sentence broke off when he looked up to see who had addressed him.

Nishinoya threw his head back in a laugh. “Sorry for scarin’ you like that.”

“...Nishinoya?” Asahi said, the breath squeezed out of his lungs. That was a face he never thought he’d see again, one of the many that he’d hoped he’d never see again, ever. “I-it’s so good to see you!”

“Yeah, Asahi-san!” He clapped a hand on Asahi’s shoulder, as though there were no height difference at all between them. “You look great.”

“I, uh.” He looked down at his sweatpants. “You too.”

And he meant it. Nishinoya _did_ look good. In ripped jeans and a leather jacket, clothes that Asahi could never pull off (he looked scary enough in his fuzzy bathrobe). Nishinoya had always looked good, no matter what he wore. In comparison, Asahi looked like a trash bag.

“Were you grocery shopping?” He peered over at Asahi’s mostly-empty basket. “I’ll keep you company! It’d be a great time to catch up.” 

Asahi wanted to say that no, now would be a horrible time to catch up. A great time would be never-o’clock. Also, he couldn’t even look Nishinoya in the eye right now. “Sure.”

That was how he ended up touring the grocery store with Yuu Nishinoya, the one person he never wanted to see after graduating from art school. Nishinoya didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, Asahi-san, should we stop by the protein powder aisle? I bet you need some for those muscles.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” He laughed awkwardly. “I don’t really lift weights.” He felt naked, exposing his shopping list to a practical stranger. Though they’d gone to the same art school, it had always been more like they knew _of_ each other than _knew_ each other, especially since they’d both been in different years and had different majors.

“So, what have you been up to since graduating?”

Asahi froze. He should have been expecting the question; of course Nishinoya would wonder. Everyone from art school was probably wondering the same thing. 

“You’re really hard to find!” Nishinoya added with a grin. “I couldn’t find your website or Instagram or anything.”

“Oh, uh. I’ve been working.” He attempted a weak smile. “In a flower shop. And I don’t really use social media.” There was no polite way to say that he didn’t want to be found.

“Ohh, I bet that’s really nice. Everyone needs some extra income to go along with their freelance work, right?” It was common knowledge in their industry that pretty much every artist needed a second job of some kind. “You probably get inspired by all the flowers around. But you never really did nature paintings, right?”

“Right.” In art school, he’d majored in Painting, specifically oil painting. It felt like centuries ago, but in reality it had only been four years. “What are you up to these days, Nishinoya?”

“Me?” Nishinoya grinned, strolling beside him as they made their way through the bread aisle. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

Asahi nearly dropped his basket. “A tattoo artist?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, as though expecting this reaction. “Surprised?”

“Well, a little.” Asahi admitted, tentatively placing bread into his basket. “Everyone always said you’d be one of those people who made it big in the fine arts.” A little surprised didn’t even begin to cut it—he was shocked.

Nishinoya had been a prodigy student. He was a master of acrylic paint in only his second year, and everything he turned in impressed professors. He’d always used bright colors that jumped off the canvas, every brushstroke roaring with confidence. He excelled at everything he tried—even his photography and sculptures were regularly featured in school exhibitions. 

And now he was a tattoo artist, a “low” art form and the opposite of a “real” artist.

“You wouldn’t believe how it happened,” Nishinoya said, waving his hand as though to erase their reality and paint his own picture. “So, after I graduated, I figured I’ve had enough of school, right? I mean, who wouldn’t? Four years of late nights and drawing nonstop. My friends and I decided we needed a vacation. We did a tour of Europe for six months, backpacking and getting odd jobs to pay our way around.”

That sounded like Nishinoya, doing whatever he wanted and having it work out for him. Asahi nodded and continued walking around, going through his grocery list. Somehow, he’d already walked in a circle.

“We even went fishing for Marlins in Italy. That was a wild ride, I oughtta tell you that story later. Anyway, we get back home from our adventure and I realize I need a real job.” He laughed. “So I start sniffing around and asking people what they’re doing and one of my friends is a vendor at this art convention, so I go to have a look, and Asahi-san,” He gripped Asahi’s arms, staring at him with that intense gaze. “There was this guy doing the most amazing tattoo work there. His booth had this _huuuge_ line and he gave this one guy the most awesome lion right here,” he patted his own shoulder, “and it was breathing fire and I could’ve sworn it was moving even though it wasn’t. I got right at the end of that fifty mile line and waited for the chance to talk to him. He made me realize how awesome tattooing is. It’s one thing to work on a canvas, but someone’s body as a canvas?” He shook his head. “That was a challenge I couldn’t resist.”

Asahi gave a pained smile. “It sounds like it suits you.”

“It really does! I’ve been doing it for two years now. And—some other stuff too.” He grinned, as though keeping a delicious secret.

 _But_ I’m _the one with a secret,_ Asahi wanted to scream.

“Ah. Well, my basket’s full,” He said, gesturing to it as evidence. It was in that instant that he realized that he could have pretended to have finished shopping earlier to run out of this horribly awkward situation. “I better pay and head home. I don’t want to keep you, if you have somewhere to be.”

Then he met Nishinoya’s gaze, and it felt like he got sucker punched. Deep brown eyes stared at him with the slow intensity of lava, which he could feel pooling in his chest until it settled somewhere deep inside him. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. “Nishinoya?”

Hearing his name seemed to snap Nishinoya out of it. His usual grin spread across his face again. “Right, right. I’ll see you later, Asahi-san!” He bounded out of sight, disappearing just as quickly as he’d barreled into Asahi’s life.

That night, as Asahi lay in bed, his thoughts kept wandering back to that moment. What had that intense look been about and why had time frozen like that? It was no secret that Nishinoya was...eccentric. Asahi had heard stories of the famous prodigy at their university, who always got so wrapped up in what he was doing, whether it be painting or having a conversation, that he unsettled the people around him.

Asahi hadn’t been nearly as famous during his time at Komichi University of the Arts. But he was _known,_ considering how small the university was, and how he had a nearly-full scholarship.

Really, if he thought about it now, it was a miracle he’d even graduated. Thirty percent of first-year students dropped out every year, and of those, another ten percent dropped out as second-years. It was four years worth of art projects that got more difficult as they went along, with little time to do anything that wasn’t related to coursework. If you didn’t love it, then you were screwed. Komichi wasn’t just for artists—it was for the art-obsessed, which Asahi had been at the time. Maybe he still was.

But he didn’t want to think about it.

♤

The next day, Asahi met up with Akaashi at a local cafe (their usual spot) to discuss the encounter in the grocery store. 

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Akaashi asked, sipping his black coffee.

“Of course not.” Asahi crossed his arms, staring into his own ceramic cup. “I haven’t kept in contact with anyone from school except you and Kiyoko.”

“You know,” Akaashi said, pushing up his glasses, “It’s not so shameful that you’ve stopped painting.”

Asahi sighed. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Because I’m not an artist? You’re really a gloomy stereotype, aren’t you.”

He was about to burst into flustered protest when Akaashi’s mouth fell into a smirk. “Quit teasing me.”

Akaashi laughed quietly behind his hand. “I’m never going to do that. Anyway, what’s the big deal if Nishinoya finds out you don’t paint anymore?”

“It’d be a big deal if _anyone_ at Komichi quit art altogether. And for my reasons…” He gripped the mug in his hands. “He’d just think I was pathetic.”

“You _are_ kind of pathetic.”

Asahi couldn’t help but laugh. It was impossible to be all that self-deprecating when Akaashi egged him on in that deadpan voice. “It would be like...imagine if you stopped reading.”

“If I stopped reading.” Akaashi repeated, unimpressed. “Like, if I became illiterate?”

“No!”

Akaashi held up a menu. In a deadpan, “What does this say?”

His palm met his forehead. “Okay, I give up. I can’t beat you at your own game.”

“You most definitely can’t.” Akaashi leaned back in his chair. “I’m only a book editor, Asahi. Reading isn’t a calling the way painting is.”

“But you’re always reading.” He gestured to the thick novel poking out of Akaashi’s bag.

“Never mind that.”

“Remind me why we’re friends again?” Asahi asked, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Do I really need to remind you?”

“Hmm, no.” Asahi remembered very clearly how he and Akaashi became friends. They’d met in a European literature class at Komichi. For their first project, Asahi had completed a painting based on Hamlet, and Akaashi had been so intrigued by the homoerotic themes that they’d struck up a conversation. Basically, they had become friends because they were both gay. 

They also both happened to like reading, which was why their conversations frequently turned to books, and even more often, their mutual love of beautifully-designed book covers. It was a beautiful marriage between art and literature, when Asahi wasn’t being blasted by Akaashi’s deadpan humor. Today, that humor involved illiteracy.

“Asahi, I don’t think you even know how to read.”

He sighed, knowing where this was going. “And why’s that?”

“The universe is giving you a sign by dropping Nishinoya into your life. Maybe...you should start painting again.”

His cup clanked loudly against its saucer. “I’m not doing that.”

They had approached the subject before, many times. Akaashi had tried all kinds of approaches: subtle, deceptive, straightforward, even yelling on one occasion. None had ever convinced him.

“It’s just a suggestion,” Akaashi said in his most calming voice, which made Asahi relax his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself. 

“Sorry. I just…” His eyes found the floor.

Akaashi shook his head. “Never mind.”

Asahi wasn’t stupid. He knew Akaashi was just trying to help him out. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to be helped.

♤

The next day was a typical day at the flower shop, and Asahi knew exactly what to expect. People came in to buy flowers for all kinds of occasions: birthdays, funerals, weddings, “my girlfriend is mad at me,” and sometimes for no reason at all. (People belonging to that last group were usually the most polite, and therefore Asahi’s favorite to deal with.) The days usually went by slowly, though, with most people filling out their orders online or over the phone. Suga took care of most of that stuff.

When he’d started working there, Asahi had felt pretty useless, but Suga had laughed and told him to not worry about filling orders and instead focus on minding the store. Suga was probably the best person to handle that stuff, anyway, considering that he was the professional flower arranger, or “floral designer” as he insisted on being called.

He was pretty sure that Suga had given him the job out of pity, but he’d worked there long enough to make himself useful. Especially now that he dealt with customers instead of brooding among the back shelves. Before...well, It had been a bad time for him.

But things had looked up ever since he’d started working at the Rosebud Flower Shop. Part of it must have been the abundance of color: red roses and bright daisies, photo albums filled with rainbow bouquets and wedding flowers, neon bags of fertilizer the size of baby bears and violet seed packets smaller than postcards. And everywhere was filled with green, green, green. It was just a smidgen harder to be depressed when he was so surrounded by life. Even if it was fragile life that depended on his care.

“How are your plants at home?” Suga asked, carrying [a bouquet of camellias](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0030/6157/9865/products/camellias-wedding-bouquet-4-colors-2_1024x1024.jpg?v=1571751284). “Have you been singing to them like I told you?”

“Were you being serious?” He laughed, rubbing at his neck. “I thought you were joking.”

Suga tutted in amusement, stepping around him to reach a succulent. “You need to be gentle with them so that they’ll grow.”

“Do you sing to _your_ plants?”

His laugh rang throughout the aisle. “That’s a secret.”

If Suga didn’t appear so normal on the outside, then Asahi might have called him a mad genius. The floral designer had a very gentle demeanor and lots of sage advice, but Asahi had also once seen him outdrink a 6’5” biker and in the same night, perfectly recite the twelve times tables to the tune of a sea shanty, on-key. College had been an interesting time.

Not that Suga had gone to Komichi. Asahi suspected that he would have burned the place down.

Maybe he should sing to his plants, though. It would be nice if they grew a little more in the makeshift greenhouse of his apartment. He thought he’d been doing everything right, but somehow they were only just staying alive. Maybe they could use a little song...he really hoped that Suga wasn’t messing with him. And why did all of his friends like to tease him so much anyway? What did that say about him?

The bell above the front door chimed.

“Hi! Welcome to Rosebud.” He greeted automatically. In walked a smiling middle-aged woman with a little girl hiding behind her, only to peek her head out from her mom’s legs to stare up at Asahi.

His chest warmed. “What can I help you with today?”

“I was wondering if I could chat with Sugawara-san?” 

“Of course! I’ll go get him for you.” As he turned to fetch Suga, he heard the little girl whispering to her mother.

“Okay,” the woman agreed warmly, “But only look, don’t touch anything. And behave in front of the nice man.”

He could only assume that _he_ was “the nice man.” Which was a nice change from being called a thug...maybe it was the horrendously girly flower crown that Suga made him wear as part of the store uniform.

Within a moment, Suga had come out and chatted with the woman like they were old friends, though Asahi noticed him collecting bouquet catalogs to show her. Which left him alone at the counter, watching the little girl roam through the aisles and quietly “ooh” and “ahh” to herself when she saw the different flowers on display. 

She was probably around eight years old, her hair tied into pigtails. And like all kids, she was short, her arms not long enough to reach a bouquet on a high shelf.

Unable to help himself, he walked over and took it down to show it to her. But at his appearance, she shrunk away, embarrassed.

He crouched down to her height, holding up the flowers. “These are called [sunset roses,”](https://live.staticflickr.com/2900/14215248475_8dd8582277_b.jpg) Asahi said, plucking one out from the bundle. The thorns had been removed, so that all you had to focus on was the vibrant gradient of its petals: yellow that warmed into an orange, which melted into fiery red at the tips.

The little girl twisted her cheeks into a displeased expression. “What about sun _-rise_ roses?”

He blinked, before laughing. “I don’t think we have any of those.”

“My mommy likes sunrises much better than sunsets.” She said, eyeing the roses suspiciously. As though the flower dared to look that way, an inferior sunset compared to a superior sunrise. 

“My mom liked sunrises better, too.” Before she’d died during his last year of college, with nothing to look at but the white walls of a hospital room. “She liked them because they were new beginnings, and endings made her too sad.” 

She nodded in approval. “Your mommy is smart.”

Asahi smiled, biting the tip of his tongue. His mother _was_ smart, when she was alive. But there was no need to say that to this little girl. “How about we look for something your mommy would like better?” He straightened, returning the rose to its bouquet.

He continued offering her suggestions as she walked through the aisles, amused at how she seemed to forget her earlier shyness. By the time her mother returned to the front of the store with Suga, she had decided that none of the flowers on display were good enough and she would have to return another day. Luckily, her mom didn’t share that opinion and placed an order for some bouquets, and Asahi took great pleasure in ringing her up at the cash register. As they left, the little girl clung to her mother’s leg, chattering about all the other things she wanted to do that day. He shook his head, shifting his focus to minding the store.

It was always nice to not get yelled at by a customer. It was even better when he didn’t have to deal with them at all, when his greatest worry was restocking flower pots and making sure that all of the individual plants had their needs met. Of course, the part-timers Narita and Kinnoshita helped out, too, but he liked to think of it as his responsibility. Partly because it was one of the few things he could do right. He couldn’t say the right thing to comfort someone, or even feed himself correctly half the time, but he could water these plants. Their fragile lives depended on him. And part of what they needed to grow was shit. Literally.

Asahi lifted a bag of fertilizer, ready to give the plants their food. He heard the bell above the entry door chime. Which was his cue to go to the front of the store and greet the customer.

“Welcome to—” He didn’t even finish his greeting before dropping the ten pound bag of fertilizer onto his feet. 

“Woah, Asahi-san!” Nishinoya laughed, holding the bag up in his hands. He’d miraculously caught it before it touched Asahi’s toes. “This is heavy. Are you all right?”

“I—I’m fine,” he said, once again feeling ridiculous in front of Nishinoya.

“You look nice today.” Nishinoya grinned, gesturing to Asahi’s head.

Then he remembered that not only was he wearing a wrinkled shirt that he’d just thrown on in the morning—a pink plaid button down, of all things—but he was also wearing a flower crown on top of his head. “Oh, I, uhm.” He felt his face warming up and resisted the urge to explain that employees wore them in-store, or perhaps toss the thing off his head. It had been Suga’s idea to wear them around and show off their floral designing skills, while making extra money off the crowns themselves. Obviously, Asahi didn’t agree with it, but it couldn’t be helped.

“C-can I help you, Nishinoya?” He checked the fertilizer bag for holes—none, thankfully—and heaved it back over his shoulder.

“This is such a coincidence,” He said, placing a hand on his hip. “The tattoo place I work at is just down the street from here.”

Asahi nodded, before remembering that he hadn’t told Nishinoya which flower shop he worked at. How lucky. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, the Crow’s Nest Parlor. If you ever want a tattoo, make sure you ask for me, okay?” He slapped a hand on Asahi’s shoulder, and he could swear that he felt the bone crumble. 

“R-right. Thanks.” He wished that he could be half as confident as Nishinoya, who was once again rocking his leather jacket. But here he was, wearing a pink shirt and a flower crown and stuttering like a high schooler. “So, did you want to look around..?” He had no idea what Nishinoya actually wanted from him. Was this some kind of cruel trick, reappearing in Asahi’s life like this? But Nishinoya didn’t seem like the type to do that.

“Yeah, give me a tour!”

...That hadn’t been what Asahi meant by ‘look around’ _at all,_ but it wasn’t like he knew how to refuse. “Sure, uh. This way.” He said, heading in the direction that he’d been aiming to go in the beginning, towards the plants that needed to be fertilized. He pointed out the different sections as they passed by: cut flowers, pots of different shapes and sizes, succulents and cacti. The plants got greener as they ventured deeper inside the store, all the way to the greenhouse out back. 

“Say, Asahi-san,” Nishinoya said as he watched Asahi measure out cups of fertilizer for the plants. “I was thinking of buying a houseplant. Which kind is the coolest?”

“Oh, uhm,” His eyes scanned the store for an idea. “A cactus?” They reminded him of Nishinoya’s hair. 

“Ohh the spiky ones,” He nodded vigorously. “Do you paint a lot of cactuses?”

Asahi’s hands clutched around the fertilizer, before he noticed and gently set it on the ground. “No, not really.” He was too startled to even say that it was _cacti,_ not cactuses.

“You must paint the flowers, then! Like in your hair.” He pointed to the crown on Asahi’s head, which made him blush in embarrassment.

Trying not to trip over himself, he explained how the flower crowns were part of his work uniform.

“What?! That’s so cool! I wish I could wear flowers at work. But everything has to be so sterile.” He sighed wistfully.

Asahi tried to imagine it. Nishinoya was the only person that he knew that could wear a flower crown and still look intimidating. He could easily imagine the other wearing a crown of [red and yellow carnations,](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0014/2249/1720/products/MGDHD20170154_1000x.jpg?v=1533033054) wielding a tattoo gun and a grin that was downright dangerous. “I’m sure you look cool at work, too, Nishinoya.”

He suddenly wished he hadn’t said that because Nishinoya’s eyes lit on fire. “Really?! You should come see me in action some time.”

Asahi could feel sweat forming at the back of his neck. How could he tell this guy that he wanted nothing to do with him in the politest way possible? “Well, uh—”

“That cactus looks _awesome.”_

Before he could get another word in, the human lightning bolt had already launched across the store, lifting a cactus pot to his chest. Spikes poked at his leather jacket.

“Nishinoya, that’s _dangerous.”_

The cactus-holder threw back his head in a laugh. “You think _this_ is dangerous, Asahi-san? You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

Asahi had the feeling that from now on, life at the Rosebud wouldn’t be so typical.

* * *

pre-end note: 

when i first started working on this story, i won an art giveaway from [ @creius ](https://www.instagram.com/creius/) on instagram and was gifted with these two lovely pieces, which inspired the looks that asahi and nishinoya wore in this chapter! please go check out their amazing art!! thank you again, alex ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my schedule is going to be crazy soon, so my goal is to update this story once a month. please subscribe if you’re interested in future chapters and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> special thanks to [ana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnarchyAngel/works) for being my lovely beta <3 
> 
> flower meanings:
> 
> pink camellias — longing  
> red carnations — admiration  
> yellow carnations — rejection
> 
> feel free to check me out:  
> [my tumblr](https://spadebrigade.tumblr.com/)  
> my instagram: @spade.yy


	2. lens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _lens:_ noun. 1) a piece of glass with curved sides for concentrating or dispersing light rays. may function as part of a camera.
> 
> 2) a point of view, a perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thanks to my pal [rivers](https://www.instagram.com/sketchingly/) for being my beta and my inspiration for half-mexican nishinoya
> 
> enjoy~

Asahi just wanted some peace and quiet. He liked the serenity of the flower shop, the way the tendrils of ivy curled so delicately as they hung from the shelves, the light hum of electricity running in the background. Rosebud was his place of sanctuary...until Yuu Nishinoya came back into his life.

Just remembering Nishinoya made Asahi’s skin crawl with goosebumps. The last visit was only yesterday, and Asahi was surprised that he’d managed to send Nishinoya home in one piece. It had taken quite a bit of effort: convincing him to get a small cactus instead of the three-foot-tall one, wrapping the cactus very carefully to avoid injury, and giving lots of care instructions that he could only hope that Nishinoya would follow. 

But just as he began to remind himself that this memory of Nishinoya was _only_ a memory, the devil himself entered.

“Asahi-san,” he said, bursting through the door. “How much am I supposed to water a cactus again? Also, I named him Spike! Look.” He whipped out his phone to show Asahi a picture of the cactus on a sunny windowsill. “I think he’s happy there!”

“I’m glad, Nishinoya.” He said, trying to make his smile seem as un-pained as possible. 

He had no idea how long he’d be able to keep up this facade. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Nishinoya’s company—he was curious, lively, and impossibly friendly. He was everything that Asahi wasn’t, including a successful artist. 

No—an artist. Asahi couldn’t consider himself an artist at all anymore. 

“So what have you been working on lately?”

His muscles stiffened. “Oh, you know...Just some small projects.” Like trying to live a normal life. One where his mental illness was manageable. 

“Don’t be modest!” Nishinoya insisted, slapping a small but oddly strong hand onto his shoulder. “You should show me pictures of your WIPs. I bet they’re great.”

He suppressed a snort. Had he made any progress in his life? Therapy helped, but it wasn’t a quick solution. If there was a “before” picture of himself a year ago and this was the “after,” he wasn’t sure he would look too different. Maybe a little less rumpled. 

“Asahi-san,” Nishinoya interrupted his thoughts. “Are you shy about sharing your work or something? It’s not like we could hide anything at Komichi.”

That was true. Nearly every project at their old art university was presented to the class, if not to the general public through an exhibition. And especially during the last two years, there were lots of workshops where the entire class discussed your piece: what worked, and what didn’t. Asahi had always been a mess during those critiques.

He shrugged. “They’re mostly personal projects. And I don’t like sharing things until they’re finished.” 

At least he wasn’t being _entirely_ dishonest. In university, he’d always want to burn down his in-progress paintings, right down to the easel, so that his roommates wouldn’t see his work in a messy state. Never mind that he hated the finished product every single time, no matter how long he’d worked on it.

Nishinoya sighed loudly. “I understand.”

If people were books, then Nishinoya was a billboard: the disappointment was displayed all too clearly on his face.

“Uh...maybe I’ll show you some other time.” 

Asahi regretted the lie as soon as it slipped.

“Really?” His face lit up. “Great! Take your time with it, Asahi-san. Genius always takes a while, right?”

He wanted to say that Nishinoya had been renowned for working on his pieces quickly, at lightning speed, but instead he bit his tongue. “Right.”

They had many more exchanges like this one over the weeks as Nishinoya returned to the flower shop. No matter how miserable Asahi looked, Nishinoya still returned once every few days. He didn’t seem to catch on to the fact that _he_ was the one making Asahi upset. Even worse, he took it upon himself to cheer up the disgruntled flower shop employee. Which only made Asahi feel guilty, because there was no reason he shouldn’t be enjoying Nishinoya’s company, except for his own insecurities. 

It was only a matter of time before Suga noticed.

“Asahi, is that guy bothering you?” He asked, hands on his hips, all business in his green Rosebud apron.

“What guy?” Asahi had been preoccupied with restocking the bouquet station, making sure that they had enough of each type of ribbon. “Nishinoya? He, well—it’s complicated.” He crouched down to check one of the lower shelves.

“Is he sexually harassing you?”

“Sec—” He bumped his head on a shelf, wincing in pain before raising his head to look at Suga. _“Sexually harassing_ me? Geez, Suga, _no._ It’s nothing like that.”

 _“Well,”_ He said pointedly, “you never seem very happy when he walks through the door. And he only comes in to talk to _you_ because he doesn’t really buy anything.”

Asahi grumbled, “He tries, but I talk him out of it. He doesn’t _need_ ten cacti. And I’ve barely been able to hide the Venus flytraps from him.”

Suga quirked a brow, amused. “You know you’re keeping me from making money, right?”

“He’s going to kill them, Suga!”

He threw his head back in a laugh, lowering his hand to pat Asahi’s head, who was still crouched down on the floor. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

Asahi should have known that the matter wasn’t settled there.

A few days later, Nishinoya once again appeared in the shop. Asahi saw a glimpse of him from the back of the store, rocking combat boots and a bright smile. Somehow, he lost the ability to breathe.

Before he could say anything, Suga was already at the front of the store, wearing his Customer Service Smile. The one he used when he didn’t want to deal with people, but didn’t want to look murderous.

“Hello! Welcome to Rosebud. How may I help you today?”

“Is Asahi-san here?” Nishinoya asked, already looking around the store for a certain Jesus-like giant.

“He’s handling some deliveries.” Suga lied easily. “I can help you, though. I’m the owner.”

“You’re the owner?! That’s so cool—”

Asahi didn’t hear the rest of the conversation as he escaped to the storage room, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He could hear the echoes of animated chatter as he stared helplessly at a bouquet of [ pink larkspur. ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d8/6a/49/d86a4947bf6edb4584b9c01b5a891867.jpg) He didn’t know how long he stood there, but it felt like forever before Suga came back.

“He sure is a character,” Suga said amusedly, leaning against a shelf. “I’ve decided that he isn’t a creep, but he looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you’d be out for the rest of the day.”

A new wave of guilt washed over him. Not only was he _lying_ to Nishinoya, but he was actively hurting his feelings. This had to stop. 

He was going to tell Nishinoya that he didn’t paint anymore, hadn’t made a single artwork since graduating from Komichi four years ago. He was going to quit the charade and just be honest.

♤

“I’ve got great news!” Nishinoya declared several days later as he burst through Rosebud’s door. “One of my old classmates is opening up an exhibition soon! He could use a few extra pieces in the gallery, so I told him about you and he was _really_ interested.”

With every word, Asahi’s heart dropped down a few notches. “Interested in _me?”_

“Yeah! It’s a weekend-long exhibit at Kaede Gallery.” He leaned against the check-out counter, eyes sparkling. “Everyone is going to be there. Komichi alumni, curators, _all_ the important people.”

Asahi thought he’d faint. “Wow…”

“Yeah, _wow!”_ Nishinoya emphasized excitedly. “It’s going to be a _crazy_ networking opportunity.” He pulled out his phone, showing Asahi a page with the exhibition details. “If you don’t have the time to paint something new, then I’m sure one of your old pieces could fit the theme. It’s right up your alley!”

Looking over the e-flyer, Asahi could see that it _was_ right up his alley. The theme was “Light Through the Clouds,” a symbol of hope during dark times. As a growing artist, he’d always been stuck on themes like that in his work. How had Nishinoya even remembered?

“I know you’re shy, but please think about it.” Those brown eyes were pleading, pulling him in like a fishing line. “This is a great chance to show off your stuff! I bet everyone is _dying_ to see your latest works.”

Everyone. Everyone, as in his old Komichi classmates. Who hadn’t seen anything of him, heard from him, in years. Who would have so many questions.

All the moisture in his throat dried up. His own voice sounded foreign to him when he said, “I’ll think about it.”

He had no intention to contact the guy, but he would definitely _think_ about it. With the way his brain worked, he wouldn’t be able to think about anything else except how he was a liar and a disappointment. 

Though, maybe they’d been expecting that to begin with. He’d been a scholarship student with a single mom. Who didn’t go to Europe every summer and who bought his art supplies from the clearance section. He was a nobody.

♤

A few days later, Asahi found himself not knowing what to do. So he did what he usually did when he felt lost: he called Akaashi.

“Hey, Akaashi. I’m about to get off work. Is it okay if I come over?”

“Sure. Bringing the usual?”

“Of course.”

“See you soon then.” Akaashi said politely, before the line went dead. 

Their “usual” was an elegant meal of iced coffee from the cafe near Rosebud and steaming ramen from a closet-sized restaurant near Akaashi’s apartment. 

His knuckles barely met Akaashi’s door before it swung open and the food items were stolen from his arms, allowing him to take off his shoes. 

The place was just like the last time he’d visited: messy, with papers strewn across every flat surface and stray clothes left hanging over chairs. But it wasn’t _dirty—_ there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. And it smelled like...coffee?

“Did you make your pre-coffee coffee?” Asahi asked with a chuckle. 

The rich, wafting scent was unmistakable. He didn’t know why Akaashi didn’t just inject caffeine into his veins directly.

“Yes, black like my soul.” He dug out the chopsticks. “Sit down.”

They both collapsed on Akaashi’s couch, still in their clothes from work, hair messy and mouths full as they talked about the things weighing them down. Asahi always had more to talk about, but he had learned to stop feeling bad about it. And Akaashi always seemed slightly entertained by his anecdotes. 

“So Nishinoya can’t take a hint?” He asked, already half-done with his bowl of ramen. 

“Basically,” he grumbled. “And now there’s this whole exhibition thing. It’s only been a few days since he told me about it and he’s already asked me if I called his friend three times. I was so freaked out that I just lied and said I called him.”

Akaashi gave him a small frown, a quiet look of disapproval. “You can’t keep lying to him.”

“I know.” He sighed, fingers fumbling with his chopsticks. “And the fact that it’s getting easier for me to do it...it’s a bad sign.”

Akaashi leaned back against the cushions, thoughtful. “Maybe you should just do it.”

“...What?”

He crossed his legs into a pretzel, turning to fully face Asahi. “You already told Nishinoya you called him. If you actually paint something and submit it for the exhibition, then there’s no harm done, right? It wouldn’t count as lying.”

“I…” 

He couldn’t deny that Akaashi was right. If he submitted a painting, then it would wash away his earlier lies—Nishinoya would stop asking him questions, wouldn’t have to know he’d been lying before. Wouldn’t have to know how his life had been for the past four years.

Asahi pursed his lips. “There’s just one problem. I haven’t painted since college.” He ran his fingers through his hair irritably. “And I’ve _tried,_ Akaashi. There were times I _really_ thought I could do it—I go to the store, buy a new canvas and paints. I have this clear vision in my head. And then when I sit down to actually do it, I paint and then paint over it because it’s all wrong and I can’t fix it and it’s like college all over again a-and I can’t _do it—”_

“Asahi,” Akaashi said gently. “We’ll figure something out. Breathe.” 

He hadn’t realized he’d started hyperventilating. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and then did it again slowly, over and over, until his heart wasn’t racing quite as hard. 

“You look like a deflated balloon.”

Asahi let out a laugh. If Akaashi was making jokes, then he knew he’d be okay. “Thanks.” 

“Why don’t we try…” Akaashi paused, his voice far too careful, “p-wording...this weekend?”

He face-palmed. “You can just say ‘painting’.”

“Just making sure.” He stole Asahi’s bowl of ramen. “You can be sensitive sometimes.”

♤

That weekend, Asahi found himself clutching a plastic basket.

“Will you relax?” Akaashi rolled his eyes. “We’re only shopping for paints, not caskets.” He brushed past Asahi into the craft store. “Let’s go.”

Numbly, Asahi followed. It had been a long time since he’d stepped into a store like this, with bright white lights and shelves of neatly assorted art supplies, arranged into pleasing rainbows. It made his stomach hurt.

“You have brushes, right?” Akaashi asked, walking ahead of him and keeping his eyes trained on the labels above each aisle.

“Yeah…” They’d been too expensive to get rid of. The oil paints had been expensive, too, but they were just too hazardous to keep around unattended. He didn’t want a fire in his apartment because that would have been even _more_ expensive.

“So we’ll get a few tubes of paint and a canvas.”

He nodded, relieved that Akaashi had come along. He was afraid to touch anything himself, as though his lack of talent was infectious and would spread to the next person that picked up a tube of Prussian Blue.

His fingers twitched. “Akaashi, I’ve been thinking…” He said, looking into the basket where the tubes of paint now lay. “I appreciate you coming here with me, but I think I should do the next part...the p-wording...on my own. Because if someone’s with me, then I’ll just feel eyes on my back and—”

Akaashi held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “You don’t have to explain, I get it. You need your space. Just call me if something happens, okay?”

He nodded silently, bewildered as always by Akaashi’s blunt kindness. “I will.”

The rest of the trip was surprisingly painless. They grabbed a canvas (Asahi groaned—he’d forgotten how much they cost without a student discount) and went to the register. Five minutes later, he held up a plastic bag with a receipt sticking out. His entire future was banking on the bag’s contents.

Hours later, it was just Asahi and the canvas.

The canvas and Asahi.

It was so...blank.

“Time for a break.” Asahi decided with a garbled sound, something that was almost a sigh. 

He’d put the canvas in the room with the most windows, his Happy Room, praying that the paint fumes wouldn’t kill his fern. He stepped away from the canvas now, venturing into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

He could feel the canvas watching him.

Even through a number of distractions—music playing on his phone, bittersweet tea on his tongue, removing his glasses to blur his vision—something white lingered in the corner of his eye. He knew it wasn’t there, and yet his heart pounded.

Asahi held his mug weakly. “Okay. I’m coming.”

There he was again, glasses on, hair in a bun, ready to work. Finger poised thoughtfully on his chin, the other hand holding up his palette with his few paints squeezed on.

“You’re going to paint dirt, Asahi.” He told himself. “You have the colors: red, yellow, brown, and white. That’s more than enough for dirt.”

The first streak of paint didn’t have to be perfect, he knew. It was going to be covered by a ton of other paint. 

No one was even going to see it. 

His brush hovered over the canvas. 

With a final jerk of his wrist, the brush landed a small splotch of brown paint onto the canvas. He freed his lungs, exhaling a much-needed breath.

His first thought was to send a picture to Akaashi, captioned “baby steps”. Akaashi sent back a long, complicated quote from a book that he designated to be words of encouragement. 

A victory.

♠

Nishinoya felt the excitement sizzling in his veins. He’d been waiting—itching, aching—for nearly two months, and now it was finally the night of the “Light Through the Clouds” exhibit.

Kaede Gallery was one of his favorites in the area. At first glance, it seemed like any other gallery: tall white walls covered in perfectly spaced art pieces, and glossy, polished wood floors. But the ceiling had this industrial-looking metal grid that almost gave it a night club feel, which contrasted against the quiet classical music that wafted from a live band in the corner. 

The gallery was already full of people: faces he knew personally and ones he recognized because they were famous in the art community. He could already spot some older Komichi alumni and other gallery directors, who he gave friendly waves.

He wanted to see Asahi’s painting so badly that he could have jumped right out of his combat boots. No matter how much he’d begged to see photos of the painting-in-progress, Asahi had never budged, saying that he would see the painting when it was ready. 

Nishinoya just hoped that the painting would be ready for _him._ He arrived at Kaede gallery dressed to kill in his (half-unbuttoned) black button-up with lightning bolts, tucked into black jeans with a chain hanging off the side. He’d pulled up a few minutes late (obviously—you can’t arrive at a party early!)

Interesting people, drinks flowing—it was going to be a perfect night. There were some people that he was dying to see. 

Like Ennoshita—his friend from college who had become an indie film director.

“Where’s your other half?” Ennoshita asked, wearing his signature amused smile.

“You mean Ryuu?” He laughed.

Of course Ennoshita would ask: he and Ryuu Tanaka had been inseparable since they became roommates in college. In fact, they were _still_ roommates. Except now they shared Ryuu’s apartment instead of a cramped dorm.

“Nah, I left him at home.” He grinned. “He can only get work done when I’m not there.”

“I wonder _why.”_

“Hey!” Nishinoya laughed, giving him a good-natured slap on the shoulder.

Ennoshita shook his head. “Hey, are you looking for someone? I keep seeing you glance around the room.”

“Ah, that’s…” Nishinoya could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. 

He _had_ been sneaking glances here and there, in the hopes of spotting Asahi. He couldn’t be _that_ hard to find, with how tall and beautiful and radiant he was.

“Is it Kiyoko-san?” Ennoshita asked smugly. “I remember you being so smitten with her.”

It was true that Nishinoya had been a _little_ obsessed with her at Komichi. Okay, that was a lie—maybe _a lot_ obsessed with her. There was one semester when he’d memorized her class schedule so that he could routinely “run into her” on campus and offer to carry her books for her. Which she always declined. And anyway, he’d had to stop when she threatened to sue him for harassment.

Yeah, he’d been _real_ stupid in college. He was glad those days were over!

But anyway, how could anyone _not_ be infatuated with Kiyoko-san? She was an ethereal goddess that mere humans did not deserve to look at. But the peak of his Kiyoko phase came before he realized he was bisexual.

Since then...well, his horizons had expanded a little bit. To cute, muscular, Tarzan-like men with flowing hair. Who worked at flower shops. Who were named Asahi.

Ennoshita took his flustered silence as a cue to continue talking. “Kiyoko-san is here today as the gallery assistant. You should go talk to her, if you can behave yourself.”

Nishinoya’s back straightened like a soldier reporting to his captain. “Don’t worry! I’m on my best behavior.”

When Ennoshita walked off to greet someone, he decided to get a drink and check out the art. Every few steps, he’d run into an acquaintance, but he didn’t have to walk very far before reaching his own piece hanging on the wall. 

A photograph from his first real photography series: Mexico in Japan. It was a collection of places in Japan that reminded him of where his mother grew up in Mexico. The series had pictures of Hispanic foods on shelves in supermarkets, colorful buildings, and gatherings of his Mexican friends drinking aguas frescas in Okinawa. 

The photo he’d chosen for this exhibit was of his buddies eating homemade tacos in an apartment after one of them had gone through a breakup, a lone crucifix in the background. The sad friend sat in the corner with shoulders slumped while the others widely gestured with big smiles or added food to his plate. 

The breakup hadn’t been that serious and it was a funny picture, one that suited the “hope in a dark time” theme of the gallery tonight.

Speaking of hope...where was the person he’d been desperately hoping to find?

[Text to: Asahi-san (♥ω♥*)] Hey !!! im at the gallery and i dont see you. are you running late?

Asahi didn’t strike Nishinoya as the type to be late, but maybe his Uber was stuck in traffic or he spilled soy sauce on his outfit (that happened to Nishinoya plenty of times) or some other unforeseen event happened.

Really, it was kind of funny how badly he wanted to see Asahi now, considering how he’d felt in college. They’d never talked—partly because of reasons like being in different years and majors—but also because Nishinoya couldn’t _stand_ him.

It wasn’t like Asahi had done anything to deserve it. It was purely because he’d been Kiyoko’s friend. Nishinoya had seen them walking around on campus together many times, sometimes in a bigger group but sometimes alone, and he’d been raging with jealousy.

Who was this guy? Why did he walk so casually beside Kiyoko-san all the time? Who did he think he was with his cool eyebrow piercing and the ends of his pretty long hair dyed pink? (It was an unofficial rule for Komichi students to have piercings or dye their hair a bright color at least _once_ before graduation.)

The point was, Nishinoya hated that some guy had gotten close to Kiyoko-san, a guy who wasn’t him or Ryuu. He’d been on the verge of challenging Asahi to a drunken fist fight when Ryuu informed him that Asahi didn’t like _any girls at all_. That had given him a new perspective.

He’d kept an eye out for Asahi from then on. He was so talented; even if he wasn’t always the talk of the university, Nishinoya could see the mastery of his brushstrokes. But he hadn’t heard anything of Asahi until spotting him in the grocery store, when he’d been struck by cupid’s bazooka.

It was even _worse_ than when he got a crush on Kiyoko-san. Even watching Asahi blink made him distracted. He was going to make that man his—if only he could find the guy. 

The more he looked for Asahi, the more people he ran into. It was a good thing he liked being the center of attention. Everyone he talked to wanted to introduce him to someone else, and he charmed them with stories of the places he’d traveled to: how a sheep almost got him killed in Scotland, or the time he accidentally took a mystery drug in a club in Barcelona. But between every conversation, he checked his phone.

No texts or calls from Asahi.

[Text - delivered] I havent seen your painting yet. they always keep the good stuff out of reach right ? (≧▽° )

A few minutes later, there was still no reply. 

As the night went on and he made his way through the gallery, he became more and more confused. Was Asahi not coming? But maybe he was already at the gallery, hidden in the crowd, too busy chatting and having a great time to check his messages.

But where was Asahi’s painting? Maybe if he just walked a little further, he’d see it...His feet carried him to the different walls: paintings of birds, a weird flower growing in a thornbush (the description said it was called[ cyclamen ](https://s3.amazonaws.com/cdn.gurneys.com/images/800/39784A.jpg)) and many others, all done by artists that were not Asahi Azumane.

Had he walked past it already?

[Calling…Asahi-san (♥ω♥*)] 

It rang. And rang.

Then it went to voicemail. 

He tried another two times, and was about to try again when—

"Nishinoya-san.”

He’d know that cold tone anywhere. He turned around, hastily shoving his phone in his pocket. “Kiyoko-san!” 

She looked professional: beautiful black hair in a neat bun, in a plain black business suit, holding a clipboard. And yet she outshone everyone in the room.

“You got new glasses!” He gestured to them brightly. The rims were pink and vintage-looking. “They look great.”

She frowned. “Thank you. You’re attracting a lot of spectacle, as always.”

“You know me,” he laughed, hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets. “Say, do you know where Asahi-san’s painting is?”

Her face contorted. “Is that a joke?”

“I—what?” That wouldn’t’ve been a very funny joke. “Why would it be a joke? His piece is supposed to be on display.” He gestured to the walls.

She eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t know what this is about,” she began slowly, “But Asahi’s painting isn’t here.”

“Well that isn’t right.” His eyebrows knit together. “Let me call someone—"

“Nishinoya-san, stop.” Kiyoko clasped a hand over his arm. Normally, the touch would have sent him over the moon. But she was looking at him like he’d suddenly sprouted a third eyeball. “You…don’t know, do you?”

He felt his impatience kicking in. “Know what?”

“Why Asahi isn’t here. Why he _wouldn’t_ be here.”

He licked his lips, not realizing how dry his mouth had gotten. “What do you mean?”

♠

Asahi was supposed to be at the art exhibit. Technically, he was supposed to be there two hours ago. But he had far more pressing things to take care of.

Like lying in bed and staring at his ceiling. With his phone hidden somewhere because he’d turned it off and chucked it out of sight after the first time Nishinoya had texted him. He’d been overcome with guilt and nausea, releasing his worthlessness in the form of sobs that had now left his body empty.

In his head, he made a list of things he hadn’t done:

  * He hadn't taken his antidepressants in two days.
  * He hadn’t showered in three days.
  * He hadn’t left his apartment in four days.
  * In these two months since Nishinoya told him about it, he had never called the exhibition guy.
  * He had never finished the painting.



So what _had_ he done?

  * He’d failed.



The soundtrack to his misery was the faint noises of a random Netflix show playing in the background, which he paid no attention to. The faint glow of his laptop was the only light on in the apartment. 

There were a few reasons for the darkness: he’d been too lazy to turn on the lights after sunset, and the lack of light obscured the total mess that had overtaken his apartment—dirty dishes, empty takeout containers. He hadn’t seen his plants in days because they were in the same room as the canvas. Some of them probably needed water. At least one of them would be dying.

It would just be another living thing that he allowed to die. Like his mother.

His stomach growled. Uncaring of his desires to disappear, his body loudly proclaimed that it desired to keep living, and it needed food to do this.

There was no way he was cooking. He’d gone through the last scraps of his pantry days ago, so he’d made the choice to drown himself in tomato sauce and cheese by ordering pizza. That was about twenty minutes ago. When was that delivery person getting here?

There came a knocking at the door.

He scrambled up from his bed, hoping the delivery person wouldn’t notice how greasy his hair was in its bun, or the stains on his sweatpants. Had he gotten a text notification? Shit, he shouldn’t have thrown his phone somewhere—

“Hi, sorry abou—” He froze mid-sentence.

Because standing at his door was Yuu Nishinoya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love putting flower symbolism into this fic but i realized that the meanings are obscure and probably no one will understand them fgndkkf so i’ll put their intended meanings in the end notes from now on :)
> 
> pink larkspur — fickleness, changing your mind  
> cyclamen — separation
> 
> my social media:  
> [carrd](https://spadebrigade.carrd.co/) | [tumblr](https://spadebrigade.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/spade.yy) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/spade_yy)  
> please leave a comment below ! thank you so much for your support <3


	3. easel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _easel:_ noun. a wooden frame for holding an artist's work while it is being painted. the support of the canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha… it’s somehow been three months since i last updated?? goodness, i didn’t realize it was that long. a combo of schoolwork and (ironically) mental illness can cause delays! in any case, i hope it was worth the wait <3 please enjoy

Asahi had been expecting the pizza delivery person. He thought he would swing the door open and find someone who didn’t care what he looked like, didn’t care about his existence in general aside from receiving a suitable tip. But no, Asahi did not have this luxury. Instead, Nishinoya was standing at his door. 

He was right there, 5’3” but somehow appearing 10 feet tall. Standing perfectly straight, eyes wide in surprise. Clearly seeing that Asahi was  _ not  _ at the art exhibit like he’d said he would be. And it wasn’t like he could lie and say he was on his way out because he was in  _ sweatpants _ and looked like  _ shit. _

“N-Nishinoya!” he said, not knowing whether to shield his messy apartment with his equally messy body, or simply shut the door and disappear. Either way, he did not want this to be happening right now.

“Asahi-san,” Nishinoya said, eyebrows knit together. He looked...worried?

Was Nishinoya  _ worried _ about him? Worried about Asahi, who was comfortably at home breaking his promise? Nishinoya, with his concerned brown eyes emitting warmth like lanterns. He was so obviously dressed up for a big night at the art exhibit, a night he was supposed to enjoy, but instead he was  _ here— _

“Can I come in?” Nishinoya asked, glancing between Asahi and the crack in the doorway. 

“I—well, it’s kind of a mess—” He tried to pick up the remnants of words that had spilled all over the floor. But he wasn’t allowed to refuse, as Nishinoya was already walking into his apartment. 

Asahi felt himself release something like a sigh of defeat, only wimpier, before following Nishinoya inside. They became submerged in darkness, the only light coming from the ajar doorway. A crooked slant of pale yellow illuminated the mess: clothes on the floor, his unmade bed plopped in the middle of what would normally be a living room, shielded only by a paper screen divider. Elsewhere in the darkness, where Nishinoya could not see, were piles of dirty dishes, layers of dust, and a garbage can overflowing with wrappers.

“Woah, were you sleeping?” Nishinoya asked, looking around into nothingness. “It’s so dark in here.”

“Yeah...I was…” As he trailed off, he became more and more aware of the Netflix show still playing in the background. “I—I forgot to turn that off.” He resisted the urge to smack himself in the face for lying again.

It would have been okay if he’d  _ actually _ been asleep while the exhibit was going on, at least then he could say he was sick. But here he was, watching Netflix in his sweatpants, enjoying himself like an asshole.

Meanwhile, Nishinoya felt along the wall until he found the light. Asahi blinked from the brightness. He was fully exposed: the bags under his eyes, the hole in his shirt, the dumpster fire of his apartment. It left him unprepared for when Nishinoya stepped into his personal space. Nishinoya leaned up, stretching his neck until his face met Asahi’s chin.

Asahi froze, locked into place by those eyes, eyes too fierce for the soft words that followed. “Are you going to keep lying to my face?” Nishinoya’s breath tickled his chin.

A shiver ran down his spine. Groping for time, for an excuse, he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Kiyoko-san told me you don’t paint anymore.”

Asahi gulped. “Did...did she say why?” He stepped backwards, nearly walking into the paper screen. A fragile thing, nonetheless a prison wall brushing against his back.

“No.” Nishinoya crossed his arms. “I think you should tell me why.”

“I…” Asahi sighed, sitting on the edge of his bed. As much as he’d tried lying, running, and hiding, there was no way out of this. He had to tell Nishinoya the truth: he owed him that much. “No one knows about it. Except—except my close friends.” He was finding it harder and harder to look Nishinoya in the eye.

“So what happened?” Nishinoya lowered himself gently onto the opposite side of the bed. 

Asahi could feel the concern radiating in waves, though he was too overwhelmed to look at the other directly. It was becoming quite clear to him that Nishinoya wasn’t going to let this go. “It happened during my last year at Komichi.”

♤

_ Asahi was nearly done. Finally, after four long years of nothing but sketching, painting, and repeating. Four years and thousands of dollars to get a piece of paper, proof that he was a real artist. He just needed to get through finals week. _

_ It was always a nightmare. Then again, every assignment was a nightmare for him. He’d start out with a strong idea and then question it over and over again, until it came out completely different than what he’d imagined. And then he’d wonder if he should have stuck to his original vision. It was the kind of thing that most students grew out of at Komichi, but for some reason, the habit always stuck. _

_ The final assignment that he felt most comfortable with was for his upper-level elective called “Art of Tomorrow.” Oddly, it was a group project. And even more oddly, he was the leader of said project. A decision that he did  _ not _ make, but that his groupmates thought would be a good idea since the professor liked to pick on him during class and they had a good relationship.  _

_ Usually, Asahi dreaded group work, but he knew everyone in his group and they were all dependable students that he wouldn’t need to chase down with a bucket of paint in order to get the assignment done on time.  _

_ “You’ve got this in the bag, Asahi,” one of his teammates had said. _

_ The project was basically done by the time Asahi got his hands on it. It was an acrylic painting done on a huge canvas in the style of a comic. Each of them had worked on different panels. It was their take on an old fairytale called “The Most Foolish Traveler in the World,” who is so good-hearted that he is tricked into giving up everything he has, including his clothes, and eventually, his body parts.  _ [ _ The original version _ ](https://fruitsbasket.fandom.com/wiki/The_Most_Foolish_Traveler_in_the_World) _ had a much sadder ending, but in their rendition, the dead traveler’s spirit guards the forest and drives out the monsters. _

_ The artwork was practically perfect: it applied everything they’d learned in class and it blended all of their respective art styles beautifully. The panels all used the same color palette, and each one brought out the strengths of its respective artist: Asahi’s in particular showed a lot of movement and a detailed background. But something was missing. _

_ He looked at the last panel—his panel. The ethereal brushstrokes of the traveler’s spirit, ghostly against the painted forest, a smile on his face. _

_ The professor had told them to be daring. Was this daring enough, a happy ending? In this college, where art was judged to be the best when it was the most outlandish or edgy? Was this storybook piece going to be enough for their cutthroat professor? _

_ The worries mounted, morphed into chest pains and a wetness under his armpits. He’d thought about all of this before, when he’d first started working on the project. But its potential had given him confidence. Now, as he looked at the completed piece, he knew that this was all it was, and all it was going to be. _

_ Was it enough? _

_ Were their combined efforts enough to get them an A? Had he led his group down the wrong path, dooming them from the start with his childish idea?  _

_ It wasn’t even just about the assignment itself. Was this project really a good representation of all he’d learned at Komichi, of all the scholarship money and opportunities given to him? Was he going to let everybody down—his group, his professor, his classmates, his mother, himself? _

_ No, this wouldn’t do. The painting was mediocre at best. He couldn’t change the concept—it was too late for that, since it was due tomorrow—but he had to do  _ something. _ It had to be better. _

_ Chest churning like the gears of a machine on its highest speed, he picked up a brush. He blinked. When he opened his eyes, the painting was ruined. _

_ By the time it was their turn to present to the class the next day, Asahi had convinced himself that everything was fine. He’d spent the whole night fixing up his panel. The painting was now perfect, the professor would give them a few compliments, and they’d be on their way out of the class (and out of university) with a decent grade. _

_ “Next up is Asahi’s group.” _

_ They went to the front of the room and he pulled the sheet off the painting with a quiet whoosh, only to be met with complete silence. _

_ The professor stood with his hand pressed over his mouth. “This isn’t the concept you discussed with me.” _

_ “What?” One of his groupmates asked, stepping out of the line they’d formed beside each other to step out in front of the canvas. “...You changed the last panel?” _

_ The group murmured in confusion, until they all disassembled to look at what he did, facing the canvas and him. He’d painted over his original panel, leaving his part thicker than the others. Instead of a happy ghost was a dark, empty forest, with a small pile of dirt in the foreground to resemble an unmarked grave. The Foolish Traveler had buried what was left of himself, the nocturnal forest creatures going on without him. _

_ The professor folded his arms. “Your group didn’t know about this creative decision?” _

_ “I—” What could he say? “No.” _

_ “Can you defend this decision?” _

_ “Well—” _

_ The professor’s eyes hardened like platinum. “Would you stake your life on it?” _

_ He froze. He had never been that sure about anything. If told to stake his life on the fact that his name was Asahi Azumane, he’d likely stutter and ask for a peek at his birth certificate. _

_ “Asahi,” the professor said, firmer than he’d ever sounded, “If you don’t believe in your art, then you’re not fit to be an artist.” _

_ The critique went on. _

You’re not fit to be an artist.

_ The professor gave normal comments to his peers (your technique could be improved here, the composition works well there) and then when it came to Asahi’s individual turn, he was ripped into all over again. Despite receiving the professor’s favorite student of the group, he received double the criticism. _

_ After class, when he tried walking out in a daze after spending an hour avoiding the glares of his groupmates, the professor pulled him to the side.  _

_ “I’m only going to give you a passing grade on this project, and your groupmates will get higher marks. For one, you were supposed to be the leader. You made the decisions and you were supposed to communicate with your group. If you did this in an actual collaboration, you’d be blacklisted.” _

_ Asahi hung so closely to every word that he was barely listening. _

_ “And another thing,” he continued, “From what I gather, you had a happy ending prepared for that painting. You know I don’t like happy endings, since we’ve been arguing about that all semester. I’m guessing this last-minute decision was supposed to be edgy. But Asahi, conforming to what I, the professor, would want is the opposite of edgy. You should have trusted yourself and stuck to the original idea.” _

_ The floor vanished beneath his feet. _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

♤

The air hung between them like a blanket.

Asahi supposed that he should have felt better. Didn’t people usually feel a sort of relief after telling a secret? But if anything, his chest felt heavier, weighed down by the shame of the truth.

The silence emitting from Nishinoya told Asahi that he was expected to say more. But he had nothing else to give.

Finally sensing this, Nishinoya frowned. “So you got a bad critique. That happens to everyone.”

Asahi’s eyes met the floor. “That wasn’t the only reason I quit painting.”

♤

_ When Asahi was six years old, he was obsessed with crayons. He used his pack of eight until they were a collection of waxy stubs and his eyes became aflame with envy whenever he saw kids at school with those sixty-four pack behemoths. He wanted every color in the rainbow. But how could he ask when his mother counted out change to buy bread at the store? _

_ When his teacher gifted him with a second box (lightly used, with rounded tips) he used it as sparingly as he could, lightly brushing the edge over his paper when coloring. When he realized he could (sort of) mix the colors over the page, his face split into a grin. It wasn’t perfect, but he was making the colors himself! He was a...a rainbow inventor! _

_ A hand tenderly met the top of his head. “What a pretty drawing, Asahi.” _

_ He looked up to see the warm smile of his mother. “Thank you, mommy.” _

_ His birthday presents were always art supplies: crayons, colored pencils, pads of Art Paper from the dollar store that officially made him an Artist. Each and every time, he’d unleash a grin with missing baby teeth and hug them to his chest. _

_ But as he got older, his hobby became more expensive. _

_ He could no longer use Crayola paint and construction paper. He needed real brushes, paint, and canvases. He borrowed whatever he could from his school’s art department, but it wasn’t enough to practice with, enough to satisfy himself. _

_ Against his mother’s wishes, he got a part-time job. _

_ She stood in his doorway after he came home late one night, arms folded. “I know you think a job will help, but it’s a short-term solution. If your grades suffer, then you won’t be able to get a good scholarship to university.” _

_ “Don’t worry, mom.”  _

_ He didn’t even know how to tell her that he wanted to go to art school. Her hopes that he’d one day get a good job and become rich were simply too high. He couldn’t break her heart. “My grades will be fine. I’m still getting A’s.” _

_ “Okay.” She came over to his desk and kissed his forehead. Most parents would nag or argue, but she trusted him completely, giving him an extra squeeze before closing the door behind her. _

_ When she left, he turned to the pile of homework that he hadn’t done yet. _

_ When people say that artists suffer for their art, was this what they meant? Mopping floors late into the evening to afford another tube of discounted oil paint? Or were they only talking about rich people? People who didn’t need to think about how their mothers slaved away at multiple back-breaking jobs just for their happiness. People who didn’t worry about leaving their family’s hearts shattered. _

_ Whatever time Asahi spent outside of work or doing homework, he spent painting. Long hours standing near an open window, just him and his sketchbook. He’d be bursting with ideas—Yellow clouds there! More color in the foreground!—hand hardly fast enough to keep up with the images flowing through his head. _

_ Every night, he’d show his mom what he’d been working on. And she always complimented him with a sort of wonder, like he held a power of the muse so awe-inspiring and distant that she could not begin to reach for it. Even then, she must have known what he truly wanted to do. _

_ One night, he did everything he could to ease his mom into the conversation. He cleaned the house, made her favorite dinner. At the end of the evening, when they sat together with two cups of tea like they always did, he told her everything. _

_ When he was done, she ruffled his hair. “So that’s why you were being so nice to me.” _

_ “T-that’s not why!” _

_ She laughed. “Asahi, I can tell when you want something. And you didn’t have to do all of that. You are going to be the best artist there is.” _

♤

And he wasn’t the best artist there was. 

An empty coffee can fell off the bed, clattering to the floor. Nishinoya stood, fists clenched. “Well  _ of course _ you’re not the best artist there is. You’re only twenty-six! Don’t you know that all the greats didn’t peak until they were old?”

He raised his head, voice cool as he met that blazing gaze. “But I’m  _ never _ going to be the best there is.” His talent had met its limits at Komichi. There was nowhere else to go.

“Sure, at  _ this  _ rate.” Nishinoya threw out his arms. “Because you don’t paint anymore and you’ll never improve if you don’t practice.”

Asahi shook his head. “You don’t understand, Nishinoya. My art was never any good. Being at Komichi made me realize that. Me, being an artist...it’s pointless.”

He wasn’t an artist. He had no intuition—he second-guessed himself every time, and always set himself up for failure. There was nothing special about his paintings: anyone who knew decent painting technique could pull them off better. His last semester at Komichi made him realize that he didn’t have what it took to be part of the cut-throat art world when he couldn’t even win a face-off against himself in the comfort of his studio. And worse than that...he’d let down the most important person in his life.

“What do you mean  _ pointless? _ Since when did art need to have a point?” Nishinoya’s voice gradually rose as he spoke. He put his hands on Asahi’s shoulders, towering over him and the bed. “Then why did you paint to begin with? There must have been a reason.”

He had no answers. His body and the floor were two magnets, the floor the stronger of the two, pulling him in. If Nishinoya wasn’t gripping him so tightly, he might have just sunk into the floorboards and disappeared.

“I  _ know _ you can paint,” Nishinoya shook his shoulders. “I’ve seen your art. You have working hands,” He gripped them. Asahi might have felt a tingle in his fingertips if his insides weren’t drained. “You have the paint and the brushes. You can  _ do it.” _

“Even if I had all the paint in the world, I couldn’t make a good painting anyway.” His voice came from somewhere else. Was it always so hollow?

“You won’t know that until you make the damn thing!”

Asahi wasn’t there anymore, though he could still perceive what was going on, as though viewing the scene from the bottom of a swimming pool. His shirt was balled up in Nishinoya’s fists. If he looked closely, he could see the fury in those eyes, face snarled like a dragon. His breathing was heavy—Asahi imagined smoke coming out of his nostrils.

“Don’t you dare give up on yourself when there are people who believe in you!” 

He was yanked upwards by his shirt, like he weighed nothing. 

“Let—let go of me.” Asahi found his voice. And the use of his limbs—he struggled against Nishinoya’s tight grip. After a harsh tug, he freed himself, only to crash into the paper screen, crumbling it to the ground. He tried to make sense of why there were splinters in his shoulders, why Nishinoya was crouched on top of him like a man about to commit murder.

“Hey!” A man in a delivery uniform appeared from the still-open front door, pulling Nishinoya off of Asahi.

Nishinoya’s gaze, hot with fury, burned into Asahi’s soul. “I am an artist! But…” His voice quieted as he blinked back tears. “I can’t give the world what you can give.”

The delivery man continued to pull him back. Nishinoya clenched his fists. “I don’t forgive anyone who gives up on their calling.” He pushed the delivery guy off, walking into the hall and out of sight.

The pizza delivery man, bewildered, looked to Asahi. “Should I call the police?”

His head fell back onto the broken screen. “No.”

“Well, uh...I have your pizza?” The man retrieved the box, handing it to him.

“Thanks.”

After the delivery man disappeared, Asahi was left alone in his apartment. Surrounded by mess, laying on the broken remnants of the only protection he had. Holding exactly what he’d asked for. Physically pained by his worthlessness.

♤

The next day, Asahi was awoken by a pounding on his door.

He jumped out of bed, yelping. “I—I have a weapon!” His suddenly-prepubescent voice wouldn’t have sounded threatening even if the statement was true. He was too disoriented to care, though, having crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning after wallowing on the floor for most of the night.

A muffled laugh sounded from outside his apartment. “No, you don’t. You don’t even have a fly swatter.”

He knew that voice. Baffled, he got up and opened the door.

Asahi’s best friend from high school stood in the hallway, looking like he always did: alert, in control, and slightly amused.

Daichi snorted. “It’s been so long that you don’t even recognize me?”

His skin heated in embarrassment. “N-no, of course, I—”

“Asahi.” Daichi clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”

The familiar and calming tone made him un-stiffen. 

Daichi put a hand on his hip. “Now, are you going to invite me in?”

“Oh, well, uhm.” He glanced back at his messy apartment, embarrassed for the second time within twenty-four hours.

“What? Is it a wreck?” Daichi snorted, pushing past him. “It can’t be worse than when you were in high school.” His face didn’t change expression at all as he took off his shoes and entered, heading straight for the kitchen. It was then that Asahi noticed the plastic bags in his hands.

“What’s that?”

“Lunch.” Daichi moved aside some dirty dishes to set the bags on the counter. “Or, breakfast, since it looks like I woke you up.”

“Daichi, why…?” He felt like he had a full question in him somewhere, but couldn’t find it. “Why?”

“What happened there?” Daichi gestured to the remnants of the crumbled paper screen.

The sight of it made him ache. “Oh. I...I fell on it.” Which was technically true.

“Right.” Daichi sounded unconvinced, but before Asahi could get a word in, he sniffed the air. “Is that…you?” He leaned closer to Asahi, imitating a bloodhound. “Eugh. You stink.”

He gaped. “I do not!”

Daichi turned away, putting the ingredients he’d bought into the fridge. “Go take a long bath. And if I don’t hear you relaxing, I’ll come in to dunk your head underwater.”

Asahi stood there, baffled. Watching Daichi put food away like no time had passed since they’d seen each other. Like it hadn’t been nearly a year.

“Are you still standing there?” Daichi scoffed. “Go.”

Not knowing what else to do now that his apartment had been usurped, Asahi dumbly padded over to the bathroom. He didn’t even really like baths, but he felt obligated to take one since Daichi told him to.

After rummaging idly through the cabinets, he found some old bath crystals he’d been gifted once and sprinkled them into the warm water. The tub was kind of small, and he was massive to begin with, so only about half his body really fit under the lavender-scented water. But even with much of his legs sticking out off one of the sides, it was...nice. 

He settled in the tub, reflecting on how his day had barely started, but was already so crazy. Daichi had entered like a tornado and hurled Asahi into the air: he was so distraught by panic and confusion that he’d been completely taken out of his headspace. But now that he was alone, heart calmed in a tub of warm water, his thoughts of self-hatred sunk in like syrup over a pancake. 

Why had he acted that way yesterday? Never mind the whole depressive episode that was stuck to the back of his mind, but did he really have to shove all of his issues down Nishinoya’s throat? His insecurities about his art, his tragic past that was  _ supposed _ to be a secret. How did Nishinoya feel, knowing that Asahi was going through all of that while they were in school together?

And what did Daichi think? Seeing the paper screen, he probably thought Asahi had gotten drunk and broken it for no reason. They hadn’t talked much over the past year, and Asahi really had been doing fine for most of it, but now Daichi would be even more worried...

A groan escaped his throat, head tilting towards the ceiling for some kind of divine assistance. He was tired of thinking. He was...tired.

The memory of Daichi saying  _ if I don’t hear you relaxing, I’ll come in to dunk your head underwater _ entered his head. With a sigh, he shut his brain off and focused on the scent of lavender, the feeling of the water lapping against his knees. He stayed like that until he got pruny, then stood to wash himself properly.

When he re-entered the living room in fresh pajamas, he found it spotless. The smell of fried eggs wafted from the kitchen (which he could see clearly, due to his apartment’s strange open floor plan). The dishes had been washed, his bed had been made, and the broken paper screen had disappeared. Though he could still feel the splinters poking at his shoulders.

“You’re just in time.” Daichi said without turning around, focusing on the pan. “Let’s eat.”

Asahi sat at the table, bewildered. Miso soup, tofu, and rice were waiting there. But Daichi wasn’t feeling all too nice because natto was also there, and he knew very well that Asahi didn’t care for it. 

He said nothing until Daichi joined him at the table, when they both clasped their hands together and said, “Thanks for the food.”

Asahi ate the natto. It tasted better than he remembered.

But the peace didn’t last long.

“You asked why I’m here.” Daichi said when the plates were empty, setting aside his chopsticks.

_ I didn’t ask  _ exactly  _ that,  _ Asahi thought to himself,  _ but sure. _

“Kiyoko called me.”

Asahi’s face furrowed in confusion. The last time he’d seen Kiyoko was probably the last time he’d seen Daichi, when they’d all hung out together with Suga.

“She was the assistant at an art gallery last night. Apparently, you and your painting were supposed to be there.”

Asahi felt the blood draining from his face. So not only had Nishinoya witnessed his failure, but Kiyoko had, too. Then Nishinoya found him—

_ “That’s _ how he knew my address.”

Daichi blinked. “Who?”

The blood found its way back to his face real quick. He shook his head. “N-nothing.”

He shot Asahi a confused look. “She didn’t know all the details, and I obviously know less than her, but I’m guessing you tried painting again.”

His hands became fists in his lap. “I did.”

A long silence passed between them. He was so sure that Daichi would chew him out for not showing up to the gallery, not going through with it—

“That’s good.”

He looked up. “What?”

“I’m glad you tried doing art again.”

That sincere look in Daichi’s eyes was too much for him to take. He looked away, playing with his chopsticks. “Why? I failed.”

“You’re never more you than when you’re painting.”

He scoffed. “I don’t know what that means.”

Daichi clapped a hand on his shoulder, hard enough to make him jump.

“Just trust me.” 

The statement was so intense that it left Asahi frozen, gaping while Daichi collected the dishes and took them to the sink.

“Daichi! I’ll wash them.”

He waved Asahi off. “I got it. Just make sure you have enough energy and some clean clothes to wear tonight. We’re having dinner with Suga and Kiyoko.”

“But—”

“Stop whining.” His tone reminded Asahi of when he used to be the volleyball captain in high school. “It’s been a while since we all hung out and Kiyoko said she’s jealous that Suga gets to see you every day.”

“Daichi,” Asahi said, holding a pillow out in front of himself as a shield. “Was it Kiyoko who said that?”

“...Shut up.” Daichi tried smacking him with a dish towel, but missed. “Like I’d miss seeing you. Your face is more beard than skin.”

“No it’s not!” He touched his skin self-consciously. It  _ had _ been a few days since he’d shaved.

Daichi snorted. “Go get that taken care of and put some real clothes on. Then you can make me tea.”

“Yes, sir!” He’d responded like a soldier without meaning to. For a regular accountant, Daichi would have made an excellent war general.

He should really check on his plants. They were probably still alive. Maybe a few of them were just thirsty…

His hand hesitated over the doorknob of the Happy Room. The painting was in there. He’d have to go in there sooner or later. Bracing himself, he pushed open the door.

It was just how he’d left it. Walls with white cracked paint, the green plants in their clay pots, a yoga mat rolled up in the corner. The afternoon light gave the room a warm glow. In the center, facing away from the door, the easel with its canvas and a small table full of his tools.

Asahi skirted around it, inspecting his plants’ leaves. Most of them were fine, because they didn’t need to be watered that often anyway. A few looked a little wilted, but he could brighten them up with a nice drink.

It wasn’t as bad as he thought, which was usually the case.

His eyes found the canvas again. It was silly to hide from a painting. Cautiously, he stepped towards it, as though approaching a wild animal. His feet stopped a meter away from it.

It wasn’t as bad as he remembered. The bottom half was soil, filled with worms, bones, and garbage. The top half was a gray smog-filled sky. And precisely in the middle, dividing the two types of gloom, was a blooming [ iris.](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1c/81/d4/1c81d46dcb8b85e9a8f280550ed036ec.jpg)

A lot of the brushstrokes were clumsy, or awkward. But he’d finished it, somehow. His vision—some imperfect version of it—was on the canvas.

“You okay?”

He looked up to find Daichi leaning against the doorway.

“Yeah.” He folded his arms, suddenly very aware of the room, what was in it, what it was saying about him.

“Is that the painting?”

He nodded.

“Can I see?”

Asahi hesitated, his fingers twitching forward on their own to shield the painting from Daichi’s eyes, despite the fact that Daichi couldn’t see it from where he was standing.

It wasn’t that he wanted to hide his art from Daichi. His best friend had seen his art in far worse states. Like that time he found Asahi’s anatomy studies—essentially a sketchbook full of extremely lifelike dicks. A mortifying moment, but it had led to him coming out to Daichi. Who, as it turns out, was not opposed to liking guys, either. And then they immediately agreed to never like each other because it would feel like incest.

Daichi had witnessed his artistic journey from its roots, so it wasn’t like he was embarrassed. He just...wasn’t ready to share yet.

♤

_ When his final year of high school came and they turned in their career sheets, saying what they wanted to do after high school, Asahi wrote, without thinking, “artist.” He sat at his desk, weighing the options in his head, figuring out how exactly he was going to do that when someone slapped him on the back. _

_ He jumped in his seat, only to see Daichi beside him. _

_ “You scared me,” he said, breathing a relieved exhale. _

_ “You’re thinking way too loud.” Daichi said, pulling up a chair beside him. At Asahi’s shocked expression, he laughed. “Why do you look so surprised? I’m your best friend. Of course I know everything about you.” He leaned against Asahi’s desk, raising an accusatory eyebrow. “Though I gotta say, if we didn’t work at the same convenience store, I don’t think I’d ever see you.” _

_ “Daichi,” He groaned, putting his head on his desk. “You know it’s not my fault! Between work and school…” _

_ “I know, I know.” He flicked Asahi’s forehead. “Quit being a big baby and tell me what’s wrong.” _

_ So he reluctantly raised his head and explained everything. How he wanted so badly to paint and do nothing else, but art school was expensive, and how much money would he even be able to make after graduation? He had his mom to worry about. But she would want him to follow his dreams... _

_ He went back and forth over his thought process, listing Every Possible Outcome of either decision. Daichi listened the entire time, solemnly. The way he always did, patient and quiet through Asahi’s rambling, occasionally nodding.  _

_ When Asahi finally finished talking, he fiddled with his hands, terrified of his friend’s response. Daichi had a cool head, so whatever advice he had to give was probably the way to go. Meaning that Asahi’s future depended on what Daichi said next. _

_ “Asahi.” _

_ His back straightened. “Y-yeah?” _

_ Daichi looked him in the eye. “I know this might be hard for you, but you have to go for it.” _

_ He blinked. “...What?” _

_ “You have to give it everything you have.” _

_ Daichi was never one for long-winded speeches. He meant every word that he said. _

_ “Okay,” Asahi said. “Okay, I will.” _

♤

Daichi shook his head. “Never mind. You don’t have to show me your painting if you don’t want to.”

He smiled. Daichi didn’t always understand, but when he did...Well, he got it right.

“I’m still waiting for you to make me tea.”

Asahi turned to his watering can. “You can drink after my plants.”

_ “What?” _ He grabbed Asahi in a headlock. “C’mere.”

“Okay, okay!”

They spent the afternoon drinking tea (prepared by Asahi) and watching movies they’d liked in high school. Lost in car chases and in-depth discussions of the best way to hypothetically steal England’s crown jewels, Asahi forgot all about how they were supposed to meet the rest of the gang for dinner until Daichi asked if he was ready to go.

“We’re going now?” That familiar panic rose in his chest.

“Do you need a minute?”

“Uhm, yeah.” He fiddled with his thumbs. “I’m gonna check the mirror.”

Daichi snorted. “You look fine.”

He nevertheless went to the bathroom, patted his pockets for his wallet, phone, keys. Inspected himself for anything on his face. Should he change? He looked fine in his thrifted sweater, but his look became 2/10 when standing next to Daichi. His best friend was only wearing a polo, but his buff arms were the ultimate accessory.

Should he even go? Asahi didn’t exactly deserve a night out. He’d been lying to Nishinoya all this time and then ghosted him on a night that was so important...And he hadn’t even apologized. Why should he get to go out and have fun when he was a huge jerk?

But it wasn’t like he could just refuse...Daichi wouldn’t allow that. He’d drag Asahi out of the apartment if he had to. And their friends would be waiting...they’d be really sad, and even more worried, if he didn’t show up. He’d just have to try to stick his self-loathing in a box and come back to it later, when he was alone again.

He sighed, looking in the mirror and repeating Daichi’s words. “You look fine.” He patted his pockets again to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “Daichi? Let’s go.”

They arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, which was how Asahi preferred it. He got used to the atmosphere, settled beside Daichi at their table. It was quiet enough to hear each other, but not too quiet, as you’d expect of an izakaya. The air was filled with chatter that added to the warmth of the atmosphere, along with fragrant steam that wafted from bowls and plates. In the distance, there were clatters of cups on tables and ringing laughter, noises that eased a knot of tension between his shoulders.

It wasn’t long before Suga and Kiyoko joined them, right on time. When Suga immediately dove in to tease Daichi and Kiyoko complimented Asahi’s hair, he felt that nothing had changed much since the last time they were all together. 

They were an odd group, Asahi had to admit. He and Daichi had met in high school and became best friends. Then, in college, he’d met Kiyoko while she was studying art history at Komichi. Her best friend from high school was Suga. One day, when they were all hanging out, they meshed so well together that it was like they’d all known each other since forever.

“The problem with your story,” Daichi said to Suga as Kiyoko muffled giggles, “Is not that you went skinny dipping. I completely believe that. It’s the fact that you talked  _ a cop  _ out of arresting you for public indecency while  _ naked.” _

Suga winked. “You’d be impressed by my powers of persuasion.”

That got them all laughing (and made Daichi a little red in the face). Asahi was enjoying himself, but he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that this was some sort of intervention. After all, they hadn’t hung out in so long, and now when he was having a Blue Episode (as Kiyoko artistically called it), they had all suddenly decided to go out to dinner. And if Kiyoko had told Daichi about it, then she’d definitely told Suga, too. They probably had an Asahi Support group chat without him.

“What’s with your face?” Daichi asked, poking him squarely between the eyes.

Asahi blinked, looking around. “What?”

“Something’s bothering you.”

“Daichi,” Suga scolded, shooting him a look. “Leave him alone.”

“Well, it’s just—” Asahi fiddled with his hands under the table. “You guys didn’t have to hang out today just because I’m depressed.”

He was met with a silence that filled him with regret.

Kiyoko was the first to speak. “Do you think we feel bad for you?”

“I, well—uhm.” The answer was yes, but he wasn’t going to say it when confronted. That wasn’t what they wanted him to say.

“It’s true that we were concerned.” Kiyoko said, looking to the other two for help.

Daichi added stubbornly, “We have every right to check on our friend.” 

Suga shook his head. “It’s not just that, though. We missed hanging out with you, and being all together. Especially Daichi.” He gave him a teasing nudge with his elbow. “Now loosen up and have a drink!”

“Okay, okay.” Asahi said with a chuckle as Kiyoko poured him some sake. 

It was the most fun he’d had in a while, even though the night wasn’t particularly eventful. They complained about work, showed each other pictures on their phones, talked about TV shows, and drank. At some point, Daichi had to cut off the sake because a) they all had to work tomorrow and b) he could not let Suga and Kiyoko get too drunk, and repeat the Karaoke Incident that had almost led to a fistfight. 

Before Asahi knew it, they had paid their bill and ventured out into the cool night, laughing with their hands in their pockets. Daichi was recounting a crazy story about his coworker, the other two completely engrossed as they stood in their little huddle. 

Asahi didn’t want the night to be over. He wished he could bottle it up and take sips from it for the rest of his life, instead of being forced to live in the moment and swallow it all down at once.

“Come on, guys.” Suga smiled. “Let’s take a selfie!”

They shuffled around to her predetermined places: Asahi in the back because he was too tall, Daichi squeezing in beside him. Suga took the picture, pulling Kiyoko close to make sure they were all in frame. “One...two...three!”

When they pulled back to inspect the picture, Kiyoko pointed out that Daichi was blinking.

“Oh come  _ on, _ Daichi.”

“Okay, okay, one more.”

It was  _ not _ one more. The next one showed Suga’s double chin, and the one after that had a weird reflection off of Kiyoko’s glasses. But they eventually got the shot, and Suga texted it to everyone.

“Thank you all for your patience with Sugawara Photography Studios,” Suga grinned. “I’ll stop holding you captive now.”

Something grew in Asahi’s chest as they said their goodbyes, and turned in different directions to depart.

“Wait,” Asahi said the word before he realized it left his mouth.

They all turned to him, Kiyoko tilting her head quizzically.

“I just...I wanted to say I love you guys.” His face heated at the sentimentality of it.

Suga opened his mouth—knowing him, it was to make a joke—but Kiyoko pushed her hand into his face to stop him, ignoring his whines. She turned to Asahi. “We love you too.”

Asahi was still thinking about it after he got home. How his friends loved him, even though he didn’t deserve it. They cared so much, and worked so hard to try to make him remember that. The least he could do for them was try to make himself happy. 

His eyes fell on the empty space around his bed, where the paper screen used to be. Yeah, he didn’t deserve to be happy right now. But maybe he could make himself worthy of happiness, if he made things right.

He went to bed resolved to do something about it tomorrow, and for the first time in quite a few nights, slept almost soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to my grand beta [rivers.](https://www.instagram.com/sketchingly/) and thank YOU for your support; the comments mean so much to me ~ this fic will (hopefully) continue on schedule, updated at the end of every month
> 
> flower meanings:  
> iris — joy
> 
> feel free to check out my:  
> [other fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadebrigade/works) | [carrd](https://spadebrigade.carrd.co/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/spade.yy/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/spade_yy)


	4. canvas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _canvas:_ noun. a strong, woven cloth used as a foundation on which to paint.

Asahi was a coward. He’d known this before, but the feeling was really sinking in that morning at Rosebud. He hadn’t apologized to Nishinoya yet.

Of course, he’d meant to. The second he woke up that morning, he’d unlocked his phone and went straight to Nishinoya’s contact name. He’d started typing out a message.

And then he’d realized that he had no idea what to say.

Where did he even begin?!  _ I’m sorry for lying to you. Also, I’m sorry for misleading you and being distant since we’ve met up again. And for breaking my promise and letting you down and turning into a mess and and and.... _

The list went on.

What made it worse was knowing that Nishinoya had been trying to help him this entire time. Getting him a spot at the gallery was supposed to be a favor, and when he didn’t show up, Nishinoya had come to check on him…

_ “Don’t you dare give up on yourself when there are people who believe in you!”  _

Nishinoya believed in him, which was most puzzling of all. Nishinoya was such an utter mystery to him that Asahi did the first thing anyone would do when they were confused about a complex topic: he Googled him.

There were  _ a lot _ of search results. Since Asahi graduated Komichi, Nishinoya had kept busy: his website revealed paintings, photography, and his tattoo portfolio. The works ranged from realistic gory demons (acrylic on canvas), artsy wedding photos with smiling couples, and colorful collage-like tattoos inspired by his Mexican heritage. Nishinoya even had a Youtube channel, with thumbnails of Egypt’s pyramids, the Eiffel tower, and the Taj Mahal.

His search didn’t tell him anything new. He’d already known that Nishinoya was well-rounded and, well...awesome.

_ “I can’t give the world what you can give.” _ Nishinoya had said it in that broken voice, a crack on the side of a mountain.

What could Asahi possibly give the world that Nishinoya couldn’t? He wasn’t born with talent. At every step of his artistic journey, he’d struggled. He wouldn’t have even gotten into Komichi if another student hadn’t turned down his scholarship. He didn’t have the artistic instincts that Nishinoya had.

_ “I can’t give the world what you can give.” _

Why had Nishinoya even been so nice to him in the first place? He didn’t deserve it. And it wasn’t like he and Nishinoya had ever been friends before running into each other at the grocery store. They’d hardly ever spoken at Komichi, and even those interactions had been fleeting. Had Nishinoya paid attention to his school pieces? It wasn’t like any of them were notable enough to leave a lasting impression, and it had already been a few years…

Sweeping helped him calm his thoughts. He’d never imagined that he would enjoy sweeping so much until he worked at Rosebud. His arms moved on their own, the repetitive motion becoming a lull, setting his mind at ease and freeing up his thoughts. The light  _ swish swish  _ of the bristles against the linoleum floor was like white noise. What made it even better was the fact that even though he was zoning out, he was still being useful by cleaning up the store. 

“Asahi.” 

Suga’s voice cut through his thoughts, making him jump. “Y-yeah?”

“You’ve been sweeping the same spot for ten minutes.” Suga smiled. “You okay?”

“Me?” He hadn’t even noticed he’d been so still. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Suga chuckled. “You’re a horrible liar.”

Of course Suga could see right through him. He knew that Suga was just worried, but it’d be nice to be able to keep his thoughts to himself once in a while. “I’m just...thinking about things.”

“Do you wanna talk about it? We—” Suga was interrupted by the chime of the bell above the storefront door. He looked between Asahi and the direction of the entrance reluctantly. “Ugh. I have to go greet the customer. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

Asahi nodded. For once, he was grateful for the interruption of a customer. He knew that Suga meant well, and he was grateful that last night, his friends hadn’t asked him too many questions about the cause of his depressive episode. But that didn’t mean he was ready to talk about it today. As amazing as his friends were, he didn’t expect them to understand. About Nishinoya, or about art.

Skirting around Suga and the customer, he escaped through the front door to the shelves outside the shop’s window. There was a display of seasonal plants, and since it was late September, they were  [ yellow chrysanthemums ](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4a/a2/21/4aa2219f4b78a63f6f1361af7d1fe226.jpg) . Asahi hummed, inspecting their leaves.

As a flower shop, they mostly dealt with cut flowers, but Suga couldn’t resist the opportunity to sell some seasonal plants. “Plus,” he’d explained when Asahi started working there, “They add a little life, you know?”

Asahi mostly felt like they were a pain in the butt. They could only be outside during store hours, so he’d have to drag them outside every time he opened the store, and lug them back in for closing. 

“Asahi-san.”

He’d know that voice anywhere.

Filling with dread, he turned around. “N-Nishinoya!” Did he always have to appear out of nowhere like that? At least Asahi wasn’t wearing a flower crown this time. “Uhm...H-how can I help you?”

Nishinoya looked  _ pissed _ . His eyes had a sharp look to them, mouth turned into a sneer. His hands were on his hips, except one of them held... [ a potted orchid? ](https://www.educationquizzes.com/education-matters/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/Pink-Orchid-Sep-17-Blog.jpg)

“I’m still mad at you.” The words were clear, upfront, biting.

Asahi felt himself stiffen. That really wasn’t the proper way to greet someone—although, if their roles had been reversed and Nishinoya had done all of those things to him, then he would be mad, too. He was certainly mad at himself. “..I understand.”

“The thing is,” Nishinoya said, letting out a huff. “I need your help.”

His eyes widened.  _ “My _ help? With what?”

“With this stupid orchid.” He held up the plant. “It’s dying.”

Upon closer inspection, the orchid didn’t look too good. Some of its leaves were browning, and one looked like it was moments away from falling off completely. And it  _ definitely  _ shouldn’t have been outside in the cool autumn air.

“Okay, I can help with that.” He wasn’t sure how much he’d actually be able to do for the plant, since orchids were finicky and this one was already quite unhappy, but he would do his best. “Do you want to leave it with me? Or…?” He could play plant doctor until Nishinoya came to pick up the orchid later.

“No.” Nishinoya folded his arms. “I want to see how you do it, so I can take care of it, too.”

It was probably the most reasonable thing Nishinoya had ever said. He tried not to look shocked, remembering to close his mouth. “Right. Are you...free now?” He looked across the street to the tattoo parlor.

“Yeah, obviously!” Nishinoya said impatiently. “I don’t have any appointments right now. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

He’d have to watch what he said, or he’d risk blowing Nishinoya’s fuse. He’d already seen what an angry Nishinoya looked like, and he did not want to go back into that lion’s den anytime soon. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a look. Follow me.”

He opened the door, heading into the shop and passing Suga, who raised a questioning eyebrow at the pair of them. Asahi shot back with what he hoped was a reassuring smile, leading Nishinoya into the greenhouse at the back of the store for a second time. Technically, customers were never supposed to be back there, but then again, rules tended to slide off Nishinoya’s back like measly drops of water.

“Let’s see what we’re working with here.” Asahi fished out his glasses from his apron pocket, feeling very much like a mechanic as he slipped them on and inspected the orchid more closely. From poking it, he could tell that the soil was _ really _ wet. Practically drowning.

“Uh, how much have you been watering it?” He turned to Nishinoya, who was pointedly looking in another direction. Was he really going that far to show that he was still mad?

“Well, first I was watering it once a week, but it seemed unhappy, so sometimes I give it an extra drink. Like today.”

“A common problem with orchids is overwatering,” he explained gently. “I’m gonna take a look at its roots. You can have a seat, if you want.” He gestured to a nearby wooden stool.

Nishinoya seemed to be looking at the chair with hesitation, as though sitting was a sign of weakness, but Asahi paid him no mind, instead getting a new pot to move the orchid into. 

“Does the plant have a name?” He recalled how Nishinoya had so excitedly named his cactus ‘Spike.’

“Yeah,  _ pendeja.” _ Nishinoya huffed. “That’s what I call it, anyway. My mom calls it cariño.”

“Is this your mother’s orchid?” He didn’t want to try pronouncing either of those, sure that whatever came out of his mouth would be insulting to the Spanish language.

“No, it’s mine. She gave it to me. It was my congratulations gift for tattooing 100 customers, but I have no idea what the damn thing wants.” He hopped onto the stool, swinging his legs around. The cuteness of it contrasted almost funnily against the scowl on his face.

“See, the thing about orchids is you can’t judge them by their leaves. You have to go down to the roots.” He gestured to the roots that were beginning to look like withered stubs. “I don’t know what the problem was before, but now you’re overwatering it. If you give it a good fertilizer, set it in the right light, and only water it on the weekend, it should look better soon.” He turned to Nishinoya, to find eyes trained on him. Peering into his soul.

“Roots, huh?” Nishinoya said, legs falling still. “Is that your problem, too?”

“Nishinoya…” He didn’t know what to say. If he knew what his problem was, then he wouldn’t have to go to therapy every week. “I—” He sighed, trying again. “I don’t know. I’m really sorry how I’ve been acting these past few months. I shouldn’t have lied to you, or skirted around the truth, either.” 

As far as apologies went, it was kind of pathetic because he had even more to apologize for. But he meant every word. 

Nishinoya crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, you shouldn’t’ve.”

That didn’t look forgiving. But Nishinoya was right; he’d have to try harder. “It’s something I’ve been running away from for a long time.” He looked down at the orchid, stroking a petal with his thumb. “I didn’t want anyone to know what a failure I’d become, and I especially didn’t want to disappoint you.” 

Gathering his courage, he looked Nishinoya in the eye. “You’re a genius.”

Asahi might as well have painted Nishinoya’s cheeks red.

Nishinoya scoffed. “A genius? Me?” But the flattery leaked from every aspect of his posture as he squirmed on the stool. “I—I’m just good at what I do! And you’re really good at it, too, even if you don’t think so.” That last part had been tacked on after Asahi made a face.

“Asahi-san,” Nishinoya said, “Do you remember The Fundamentals of Artistic Study with Professor Nakamura?”

“Kind of.” 

It was a million years ago, but he remembered aspects of it. Professor Nakamura had taught pretty much everyone that class. “Why?”

“Well, I dunno about your class. But when he taught us, he gathered all the first years on the first day of lessons and said, ‘Do you know what makes humans different from other animals?’”

Asahi nodded. He did remember a conversation like that one, but at the time he’d probably been too focused on sitting the right way or coming up with the right answer to notice too many other things that were going on around him.

“Some people said that humans are different because we use tools, or we build societies. And of course, someone picked up on his hints and said that we make art. And then of course, he said, ‘Do you know why we make art?’” Nishinoya turned to Asahi. “Do you know the answer?”

“...For self-expression?” Really, there were a lot of different reasons to make art: political reasons, to enjoy an aesthetic image, to release emotions, to tell a story. But ‘self-expression’ fell into all of those and was therefore the safest answer.

“Well, that’s not wrong.” Nishinoya laughed. “But he told us that the truest answer was that part of being human is creation. And not in the making babies way.”

Asahi couldn’t hold back a snort. “In what way then?”

“That we just need to make stuff. That’s why people with horrible voices go to karaoke with their friends, why amateurs get groupons to ‘paint and sip’ classes, why people doodle on napkins when they talk on the phone. You don’t have to be good at art to do it because you’ve already been doing it your entire life, whether you realize it or not.” 

Asahi was still trying to process all that when Nishinoya added, “I think you can’t enjoy making art anymore because you’ve forgotten that part of being human.”

Asahi wasn’t confrontational. But his brows still furrowed, and he said, more confused than upset, “And which part is that?”

Nishinoya gave him a long look. “Your roots.” He hopped off the stool, grabbing the re-potted pendeja. “Thanks for your help. Where do I find the fertilizer?”

“Oh, uhm.” Asahi had whiplash from the shift in their conversation. “I—I’ll get it for you.” He could retrieve just about anything in the store with muscle memory; it would require more mental work to explain it. He felt almost like a zombie, handing Nishinoya the bag of fertilizer before he’d realized he’d even moved.

“Thanks, Asahi-san.” 

Nishinoya’s beaming smile seemed so strange considering the cloud that had formed over Asahi’s head. He uttered something like a “you’re welcome.”

“I can ring you up, Nishinoya-san.” Suga said from across the store, perfectly friendly though Asahi knew he was contemplating murder again. If Suga didn’t have such a thing for Daichi, then Asahi might have proposed marriage right then and there.

Asahi was still ruffled by his conversation with Nishinoya later that evening. In the refuge of Akaashi’s apartment, on his usual corner of the couch, he recounted the details of his conversation about his “problem,” as Nishinoya had put it.

“Well, he has a point.” Akaashi said. “There is a sort of innate aspect to creation. And he mentioned amateurs, right?” When Asahi nodded, he continued. “The word ‘amateur’ gets its root from French, which means one who loves. Meaning that you do something only because you love it, not because you get paid or any other reason.”

Asahi sighed, leaning back into Akaashi’s couch. “So what you’re saying is, I need to become an amateur artist again.”

“Yes, something like that.”

Asahi looked at him, dumbfounded. “How? I’ve been working with art my whole life. I can’t just forget everything I’ve learned up until now.”

“No one is asking you to do that.” Akaashi took off his glasses, wiping them on the edge of his sweater. “Your problem, I think, is that you need to view art the same way you did when you were a child.”

Asahi grumbled. “And how do I do that?”

Akaashi pursed his lips. “You could try a new medium.”

“A new medium.” Asahi repeated thoughtfully. It could work—he was most accustomed to working with oil paints. And he found that he could never really  _ finish  _ a painting. Since it took so long for the paint to dry, he would always go back and change something on the canvas.

“Like...acrylic?”

Akaashi nodded. “You could build up to it.”

“Okay.” Asahi said, full of hope. But then he looked at his hands. These hands that didn’t know how to do anything.

Akaashi noticed his inner struggle. “What?”

“I just realized that I don’t remember how to be new at something.”

Everything he did in his daily life was what he’d done for years; he cooked the same food, did the same types of workouts. Hell, his shampoo had been the same since college.

“That’s not true. You learned to take care of plants.”

“Well…” It was true that he’d had to learn about plants, both for the sake of his job and for the sake of the ones living in his apartment. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“And how did you do that?”

He thought back. “I...I talked to Suga. Watched videos, read books and blogs. I tried different things.”

Akaashi raised his eyebrows. “And the world didn’t fall apart when you made a mistake?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Well, it’s the same with your art, Asahi. Learn, try, fail. It’s just like learning how to do anything else.”

Sometimes, Asahi felt like Akaashi would make a good therapist. He could break down all of his big, messy problems into simple, little pieces. But they were friends, so the care went both ways.

“What about you, Akaashi? Tell me what’s new in your life.” Now that they weren’t talking about him, he could settle back more comfortably, adjusting his mug in his hand.

“Well…” Now it was Akaashi who looked uncomfortable. That was rare.

He had to work hard to hide his curiosity; if he became teasing too early, then Akaashi could clam up again. Instead, he suggested gently, “Well..?”

“I...met someone.” Akaashi said, sipping his coffee. And then did not follow up at all, even after a long moment.

Asahi was going to have to poke his finger into this one. “Someone, like a friend? Or...a romantic friend?” One thing they had in common was that neither of them were good with the dating scene. 

“We’ve been dating for a few months.”

Asahi almost spit out his tea. A few  _ months  _ was quite a while, at least without ever mentioning this person before, but he let Akaashi go on.

“Do you remember how I was invited to that book launch party in the summer?” When Asahi nodded, he continued. “Well, I met him there.”

Asahi sipped his tea as Akaashi paused. He was trying to not jump to the edge of his seat. But at the same time, had this strange feeling that he shouldn’t interrupt Akaashi with questions.

Akaashi’s brow furrowed, and he held his mug in his hands to steal warmth from its sides. In deep concentration.

“Where to begin...it was a nice launch. The book was for children, and it was about different types of fish, so the party was in a section of an aquarium. I was walking around with my senpai, who invited me as her plus one, since she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend. Anyway, we were going around and talking to people we recognized when I saw this man talking to a group of kids.

“He was gesturing a lot, and pointing to the fish in the wall-sized tank. The kids liked him so much, and he seemed to really know what he was talking about. A tall guy, handsome, with this interesting black-and-white hair and strong-looking arms...Ah, I’m getting distracted. I assumed that he worked at the aquarium, but I didn’t see his nametag, so I asked what his name was. Koutaro Bokuto. 

“I didn’t know someone, an adult, could smile so big and genuinely mean it. It turns out that he designed the book cover and did the illustrations for the book.” He paused, sipping his tea.

It was rare for Akaashi to talk like this. As though he was remembering the events he described very carefully, like he wanted to make sure every detail was correct in his mind not only so that he could relay it to Asahi correctly, but so that he could preserve the precious memory.

“So we ended up having a conversation. He whipped out a copy of the book and started pointing to each of the illustrations, explaining why he chose the design for each page, which ones were the funnest to work one, why he had such a hard time with another...Apparently, he was excited to work on the project because of his love for animals. I’m not sure how, but we spent most of the event talking. I hadn’t even noticed how much time had gone by until my senpai called me over to discuss our ride back.

“Anyway, when things started wrapping up, I turned to Bokuto-san and said, ‘I hope to see you at the next event, Bokuto-san.’ To which he replied, ‘But Akaashi, I want to see you before that.’ So we exchanged business cards.”

Asahi couldn’t help himself. “Ooh, Akaashi!” Yes, he might have been acting like a teenager, but he didn’t care. “You got the cute guy’s phone number.”

“Yes,” Akaashi said matter-of-factly, though a faint blush appeared on his face. “Months ago.”

“So what’s happened since then?”

“We’ve been dating.” Akaashi shrugged. Though Asahi’s experience told him that Akaashi was trying very hard to hold back a smile: in fact, a small one slipped out.

“Can I see a picture of him?”

Akaashi dug out his phone, flipping through photos before handing it over.

Asahi’s mouth fell open. “This guy is  _ hot.” _ The picture was from Bokuto’s instagram. He was in a tank top at the gym, flexing his biceps in front of a tall mirror. “Are you sure he’s an illustrator? Because he looks like a personal trainer.”

“I’m sure,” Akaashi said. “Let me show you another one.”

Asahi passed the phone back, and within a moment, he was looking at Akaashi’s camera roll. This one was a selfie of the two of them, at a restaurant, half-empty mugs of beer on the table. They were both flushed and smiling, and Asahi could see that larger-than-life grin of Bokuto’s that Akaashi had described earlier. The date on the picture indicated that it was just a regular weekday, but with how the two of them looked, it might have been the best day of their lives.

“I’m happy for you,” Asahi said, and meant it.

“Thanks.” Akaashi put his phone away shyly. “I meant to tell you about him before, but I didn’t think it would go anywhere...He’s not the type of person I usually date.”

Asahi nodded in understanding. Akaashi didn’t date much to begin with, but when he did, he usually went for reserved, intellectual types like himself. Maybe Bokuto would be a good change for him.

Akaashi stared into his mug. It sounded more like he was speaking to himself when he said, “I really like him.”

Asahi felt himself smiling at this gentle side of Akaashi. “Tell me more about him.”

And Akaashi did. He told Asahi about how Bokuto  _ carpes _ every  _ diem, _ how he sometimes greets Akaashi with bouquets of flowers for no reason at all, how they text throughout the day and never seem to get tired of each other because they never run out of things to talk about. And even if they did, Akaashi suspected that Bokuto could find a way to talk about nothing at all, because his mind was so full of all kinds of different information that he could pull fascinating “what if” scenarios out of thin air.

There were plenty of points when Asahi had no idea what Akaashi was talking about, but that was typical when Akaashi got excited about something and went into his deep, literature-nerd metaphorical ways of thinking. But he was content to just sit there and listen and know that his friend was in love.

Asahi didn’t remember what the dating scene was like. He hadn’t had a boyfriend since college. Even those relationships never made it to a year; either because Asahi was a busy art student and couldn’t keep up with the relationship, or because they were  _ both _ art students and neither had time for the other. 

Of course, there had been plenty of other reasons for breaking up, but those were the reasons given whenever he and the boyfriend decided to split. Truthfully, he’d never thought that any of his college boyfriends were a good fit for him, but that’s the sort of thing to expect when he was newly out of the closet and had never dated before. Some were shallow (a classic going-to-the-gym type who was more focused on taking selfies together than having conversations), or imposing (a seemingly shy type who asked Asahi all kinds of questions and never took “no” for an answer), or a closed book (the one who was really cute and nice but only ever listened to Asahi’s problems and never offered up his own). The kinds of mistakes anyone would make in college.

Since then, he’d been too much of a mess to even entertain the thought of going steady with someone. Why drag someone else into all of his nonsense?

Later that night, resigned himself to the idea that he would simply have to support Akaashi’s romantic endeavors, and as for himself—well, he had a lot of work to do.

He was just preparing some instant oatmeal for dinner (he was still working on the whole “learn to cook” thing) when his phone rang. Across the screen flashed the name  _ Yuu Nishinoya. _ That couldn’t be good.

Reluctantly, Asahi raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Asahi-san!” Nishinoya exclaimed over loud classical music in the background. “Sorry, hold on. Ryuu! Turn that down.” Someone—probably Ryuu—said something, and Nishinoya scoffed. The music disappeared. “Anyways. Asahi-san, you know how to work a camera, right?”

“I—yes?” Education at Komichi meant dipping into every artistic medium, so he knew that much.

“Are you any good with a map? Like, navigating?”

He knew how to use a compass from years of camping, AKA vacation for poor people. “I think so.”

“And how’s your English?”

“Uhm...minimal?” He paused, realizing that he should probably be the one asking questions. “Why are you asking me all this?”

He could practically hear Nishinoya grinning on the other end of the line. “How would you like to go to Mexico with me?”

_ “What?”  _

First they were acquaintances/strangers, then they had an ugly fight, then Nishinoya made Asahi question his stance on being an artist, and now he was inviting him to a foreign country?

A laugh floated into Asahi’s ear. “I’m filming for some travel Youtubers in Mexico. I know my way around there, but I need someone with me to help with different camera angles and carry the equipment...And let’s be honest: you kinda owe me. What do you say?”

He stared at the still-unmade instant oatmeal in his bowl. Dry. Gray.

“Yes. I’ll go to Mexico with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to my [beta rivers ☆](https://instagram.com/sketchingly)
> 
> yellow chrysanthemum — slighted love (where the person loved scorns the affection of the person loving)  
> orchid — thoughtfulness
> 
> please leave a comment below ! thank you so much for your support <3
> 
> feel free to check out my:  
> [other fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spadebrigade/works) | [carrd ](https://spadebrigade.carrd.co/)


	5. brush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _brush:_ 1) noun. a painter's tool, consisting of a long handle with a block of hair or bristles on the end.
> 
> 2) verb. to touch something lightly and gently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter features artwork by the lovely [rivers !](https://instagram.com/sketchingly) CHECK OUT HIS INSTAGRAM FOR CLOSEUPS OF THE ARTWORK

Asahi was in Mexico. 

In Colima, to be exact. In a hotel room, in a bed that was WAY too small (seriously, how short were Mexican people?) while waiting for Nishinoya to finish in the bathroom and trying to figure out what part of his body to massage first because all of it was so sore. But he was truly glad to be there, the pain in his muscles almost sweet like pulled mochi dough. 

Getting here had been quite a journey. This was actually the second hotel they were staying in. The first hotel was in Guadalajara, next to the airport, because their flight had come in around 11 PM in Mexico time (2 PM in Japan time—a whopping 15 hour time difference) and then they’d spent an extra hour in customs. Asahi had been so tired that first night that he’d just passed out right away, and in the morning Nishinoya said how happy he was to be leaving the shithole place. Then he apologized to Asahi for making him stay in a two-star hotel, but Asahi hadn’t seen what the problem was.

There was barely enough time to catch their breath before they’d hopped into a rental car and drove for over two hours to their current hotel. The drive had been strange, not only because the scenery was so different (the roads were dirt and cobblestone instead of black asphalt, with trees everywhere and a stretching blue sky unobscured by skyscrapers), but also because he’d never been in a car for so long. In Tokyo, there was always an airport, and just about anything else you could imagine, within an hour by train at the most. He’d never left Japan before, and only then, breathing in Mexican air for the first time, it struck him how small his home country was—like a fleck of paint on a canvas.

The thing that probably made his muscles ache the most now wasn’t just the moving around—sitting in a plane, or a car for hours on end—but because of the leg room. Or _lack_ of leg room. Asahi had heard stories of just how cramped plane seats were, and he’d assumed he could handle it. 

But he’d forgotten to account for just how tall he was. He kept staring with Nishinoya with envy as he curled up in his seat or kicked around to get comfortable, when Asahi’s muscles whimpered from being in the same two awkward positions. What made it better, though, was the pre-packaged onigiri that Nishinoya had bought from the airport back in Japan—a taste of home that made Asahi less inclined to whine about his sardine-like circumstances.

“Ready to head to the pool, Asahi-san?” Nishinoya walked out of the bathroom in a T-shirt and yellow swim shorts patterned with palm leaves.

“Let’s go.” He reluctantly parted from the bed, double-checking that his phone was with him. 

As they walked down to the hotel pool, Asahi couldn’t help but be...well, surprised, at how at ease Nishinoya was. When they had to wait forever to get through customs, when their first hotel couldn’t find their reservation, when the car rental place tried to rip them off with a crazy price, Nishinoya had handled it all like a pro. Like he expected the unexpected to happen.

Asahi couldn’t even imagine what that felt like.

Nishinoya laughed, causing him to snap to attention. He looked around, trying to figure out what was funny.

The laugh died down, becoming a fond smile. “You’re in your own head a lot, huh?”

“Oh, uh. I guess.” He shrugged. Was that a bad thing?

Nishinoya shook his head. “You looked really deep in thought, just now. You’ve been making that face a lot.”

“I have?” He felt the tips of his ears heat in embarrassment. What face? Did it look odd?

A hand patted his back reassuringly. “It’s okay, Asahi-san. I think it’s cute.”

He didn’t know what to make of Nishinoya’s comments. Was he being...ingenuine? Patronizing? Neither really seemed like Nishinoya, but Asahi didn’t know what to make of being complimented so casually. He decided to chalk it up to Nishinoya’s overly-friendly nature.

When Nishinoya pushed the pool door open, Asahi was hit with a burst of hot air. Before he could stop himself, he let out a quiet gasp. Sure, he’d been in Mexico for over a day now, but he still wasn’t used to the weather.

For one thing, it didn’t feel like the end of October _at all._ Any time he went outside, he felt like he was sitting under a kotatsu. And instead of swaths of falling maple leaves, the trees still displayed their bright green foliage. Throughout the streets, the sun shone, and everyone spoke Spanish (which really shouldn’t have surprised Asahi, but it was nevertheless strange to not hear everyone around him speaking Japanese). Everything was bursting with color: instead of dark skyscrapers, the buildings were terracotta or sky blue or bubblegum pink. Everywhere they went looked like a painting. 

The hotel pool itself was crystal blue, in contrast to the indigo night sky, and surrounded by plush green plants with a concrete island in the middle containing a little bar. The bar was closed, and no one was around, which Asahi was grateful for.

Nishinoya immediately flung his towel onto a nearby pool chair. “I’ve been dying to get in the water,” he said as he pulled off his shirt.

Before Asahi could even think to reply, Nishinoya had cannon-balled into the water, splashing him in the process. 

He had no idea how Nishinoya never seemed to run out of energy. The night before, Nishinoya had been chattering on and on, until stopping mid-sentence and suddenly snoring. Asahi wondered if Nishinoya had broken some kind of world record or considered entering one of those nation-wide talent shows for being able to fall asleep so quickly, before he’d drifted off to sleep himself. 

“How do you even make such a splash when you’re so small?” He laughed.

“Hey!” Nishinoya puffed up his cheeks, filling them with chlorine-flavored pool water, before spitting it in his direction. It had such a neat arch that Asahi could have mistaken him for a fountain.

“Gross!”

“Why don’t you come in and stop me?” Nishinoya teased, hands on hips.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” He left his shirt on a pool chair. Thankfully, he was already wearing his swim shorts that he’d bought just for this trip. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Taking the long way,” he said, using the pool stairs instead of cannonballing off the side. 

“Boring!”

“Hush.” He slowly made his way over to Nishinoya, walking through the unexpectedly warm water.

His eyes landed on Nishinoya’s shoulder, and his breath halted in his lungs. “Wow.” 

He’d never seen Nishinoya’s tattoos before.

Well—he’d seen _parts_ of them before, peeking out of Nishinoya’s shirt. But this was different: they were out in the open, glistening from the pool water, _alive._ On his right shoulder was a Japanese-style dragon in a rainbow of colors stretching to his elbow. Except, instead of a traditional head, it had an equally colorful dragon’s skull. And from the elbow down to his wrist were waves done in the style of Hokusai.

“That looks amazing.”

“Huh?” Nishinoya looked at his shoulder, as though forgetting such breathtaking art was inked into his skin. “Oh, my tats! Want a closer look?”

He nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically. “Please.”

They scooted closer to one of the lamps beside the pool, and Asahi inspected the linework. It was sharp and clean, better than any tattoo he’d seen before. His fingers unconsciously grazed over the skin, feeling for the little dips and crevices present in traditional paintings, though he knew there were none.

“Why a skull?” The question left his mouth before he realized just how close he was, beside Nishinoya’s ear. And to top it off, he was practically feeling up Nishinoya’s arm. “Ah! Sorry.” He stepped back. “I—y-you don’t have to answer if that’s too personal.”

“No, that’s okay.” Nishinoya laughed. Asahi wanted to kick himself from how red in the face Nishinoya looked; he’d probably invaded his space. 

“I love talking about my tattoos. I love The Wave, it’s one of my favorite Japanese artworks. And dragons are totally sick, so I had to get one. The skull is based on a holiday here in Mexico, Dia de los Muertos, which is actually in a few days.” He smiled. “I can’t wait to take you to the festival.”

“So...they combine your Japanese and Mexican heritage,” Asahi said, surprised that he’d come up with the analysis.

“Bingo.” Nishinoya winked. “Oh, there’s also one on my back.” He turned, revealing a small tattoo in between his shoulder blades: a black crown with wings. “They’re crow wings. My best friend Ryuu has the same one, because we’re kings who watch each other’s backs.” 

Asahi was still trying to wrap his head around that last part when Nishinoya said, “Would you ever get a tattoo, Asahi-san?”

“Me?” He tried to imagine getting tattoos with any of his friends. The only ones who would possibly agree were Suga and Kiyoko, and Asahi wouldn’t trust them to pick something SFW. “No, people already think I’m yakuza.” Apparently, something about his face was...aggressive.

“Yakuza?” Nishinoya asked in disbelief, taking a few steps back. His sharp gaze became discerning, like he was trying to figure out the truth of the statement when he said, “Hmm. Maybe if you scowl and flex your arms.”

“Like this?” Asahi tried to make a serious face, and pulled up his biceps.

“There it is!” Nishinoya raised his hands, protecting his face. “Oh, please don’t hurt me, Mr. Yakuza-san.”

A playful growl emitted from Asahi’s throat, as he raised his hands threateningly like a Scooby Doo villain. “I’m gonna get you!”

Nishinoya shrieked and swam away, splashing as Asahi chased him.

Before they knew it, an hour had passed, their fingers were pruny, and their muscles were the good kind of tired. Asahi’s arms and legs were full of that feeling—that ache you get in your belly after laughing for too long. 

Later that night, stretched out on his bed, Asahi couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun like that in the pool. Or...anywhere, really. Being in the moment, not worrying about every little thing like buying floss or cooking dinner. It felt...nice.

Worn out from playing and the change of time, he fell asleep before Nishinoya got out of the shower.

♤

Nishinoya shook Asahi awake at 6 AM, making him leap out of bed. This seemed to be how he was starting all of his mornings now—with a mild heart attack.

“Nishinoya,” he said gruffly, attempting to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “I’m up.”

“You gotta be on your A-game, Asahi-san! We’re gonna get breakfast.”

He didn’t think he’d even be able to eat this early, and was just about to say as much when Nishinoya shoved him into the bathroom.

“Go take a shower! I need to call Kyle.”

Kyle-san was one of the Youtubers they would be photographing for during their stay, and seemed to be the leader of the group, from what Asahi could tell.

When they had been on the plane, Nishinoya had made him acquainted with their American counterparts.

“Their Youtube channel is called Windrose,” Nishinoya said, pointing to a photo of the three of them on his phone. “That’s Kyle, and Eric, and that’s Josh.”

He’d squinted, turning his head. They were all blue and green-eyed, with blonde and brown-ish hair. And very triangular noses. “They look the same.”

“Well, of course they do, Asahi-san! [ They’re white.” ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/fe85fe3137f4e036fb5f77406bde78e2/tumblr_inline_qoszipDhDk1x417o9_500.jpg)

He’d sighed, too tired to scold Nishinoya properly. “Lower your voice.”

And then Nishinoya had explained the differences between the three triplets (who were not related at all): Kyle was the polite and level-headed one, Eric was the nerdy one who liked birds, and Josh was the adventurous one.

Nishinoya had paid for in-flight wifi to show Asahi some of their Youtube videos. Josh was the one always jumping from high places or trying to dive into wherever he shouldn’t be. And they were going to have to _work_ with these people.

Now, as they sat in the car, Asahi prayed that he would make it back to Japan alive. 

“Is there anything I should know before we get there?” he asked. Nishinoya had done a pretty good job of informing him about their activities, but he wanted to be sure that he hadn’t missed anything.

“Hmm.” Nishinoyaoya drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “What can I say...we’re headed just north of Manzanillo, which—” The car came to a sudden halt. “—Is full of fucking cows.” He blared his horn.

Confused and thankful to be wearing his seatbelt, Asahi looked up. Sure enough, there was a flock of cows in the middle of the road, swinging their tails like they had all the time in the world to get to the other side.

“Are they...supposed to be there?” Asahi remembered vaguely that some parts of the world highly respected cows, like India. But he didn’t think that Mexico was one of those countries, considering how beef could be eaten with almost every meal.

Nishinoya laughed. “This kinda thing happens in parts like this.” He honked at the animals. When they didn’t move, he opened his window to start yelling at them in Spanish. “Muévase! Estoy tratando de impresionar este bombón, y me estás dando vergüenza!”

After several minutes of this, during which Asahi became increasingly uncomfortable (which happened anytime someone in his vicinity got upset), Nishinoya sighed and shut the car door. “These cows don’t give a shit. It’s gonna take them a while.”

“Aren’t we gonna be late?”

“Nah.” Nishinoya waved a hand. “When traveling, you always gotta account for disasters. Let’s give them a few minutes. I don’t feel like pushing at cow asses.”

Asahi snorted. “All right.” They settled into their seats, eating their breakfast of chilaquiles in to-go boxes that they’d gotten before leaving. [ Natalia Lafourcade ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6e6mmDWdoOU) wafted from the radio, and Asahi found himself giggling as Nishinoya took videos complaining about the cows.

After a few minutes, the cows wandered back into the grass, allowing them to go on their merry way. Eventually, they arrived at El Salto Waterfall.

While Nishinoya talked to a park employee, Asahi stayed in the car, soaking up the air conditioning for just a little longer. An American-looking car pulled up beside him, red with big wheels, the kind of car he imagined you might take on a safari. Out came three white guys—Windrose.

He froze. 

A weird reaction to have when seeing your...coworkers (bosses?) in person for the first time. The three of them seemed very comfortable, joking in English, laughing, and nudging each other despite the early time of morning. 

Asahi sat there, heart rising in panic, as Windrose approached Nishinoya.

“Asahi-san!”

He snapped out of it when he heard his name, hurriedly turning off the car and scrambling out of the vehicle, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. His face burned with embarrassment, but luckily no one had noticed him stumble, as they all spoke smilingly in English.

Immediately, the awkwardness kicked in. He had no idea what they were talking about—probably just pleasantries and plans for the day. But Asahi nonetheless felt out of place, with nothing to offer.

“This is Asahi Azumane,” Nishinoya said in English, slapping a hand on his back. The movement caused him to straighten and smile on reflex.

“Nice to meet you,” Asahi managed in his accented English. “My English...not good. Sorry.” He chuckled awkwardly.

One of them—Kyle-san—said something that made Nishinoya laugh.

When Asahi tilted his head curiously, Nishinoya translated: “He said it’s okay, because his Japanese is shit.”

“Oh.” Asahi nodded, awkward now that everyone else had moved on from the joke. He’d have to resist the urge to want to claw out of his own skin, because this would likely last all day.

Finally, each member of Windrose introduced themselves. To Asahi’s embarrassment, they did so in Japanese, imperfect and broken, along with bows of their heads. He appreciated the gesture, but he didn’t like being the center of attention.

A voice in his head told him to lighten up. He decided he would try to listen to it.

Asahi felt a bit better as they started walking along the path. He was a little behind the group, focused on adjusting his camera (or rather, Nishinoya’s camera that he was in charge of for the day). 

The plan for today was hiking through the park. He and Nishinoya were to walk with Windrose as they went along the trail, taking videos and pictures of the scenery. Asahi was pleased that the guys did most of their own vlogging, as he wasn’t confident he could aim the camera in the right place when he didn’t know what they were saying. 

Mostly, he held the heavier equipment and followed Nishinoya’s instructions. (They’d already had a photography review session during their long road trip the day before.) He could handle the heavy equipment, but had to keep himself from looking sluggish and yawning—he didn’t want to seem rude, even if he couldn’t help feeling tired. He despised the whole “waking up before sunrise” part of this outing, but it was smart of them to go early in the morning. The weather was warm, but the sun wasn’t at its peak yet, and the morning air carried with it a certain refreshing quality, despite the heat and humidity that he was still getting used to. 

Asahi had expected Nishinoya to be as equally boisterous as the Windrose crew, but was surprised to find him quiet. He should have expected it, he supposed, with Nishinoya behind the camera. Rarely did cameramen show up on film, unless they were in bloopers, if he thought about it. 

He didn’t have to hold his camera up all the time, so he snuck glances at Nishinoya as he worked. That focused, intense gaze staring through the lens, hands and camera steady no matter how rocky the path was. It felt like Asahi was seeing him for the first time: the sun highlighting the curve of Nishinoya’s muscled arm, the little sequins of sweat that had formed just under his hairline. Even now, when the Americans in front of them were laughing, making jokes, tripping over their feet, Nishinoya poured himself into his work. There were a few times when Asahi almost fell behind the group because of it.

The park itself wasn’t as dangerous as Asahi thought it would be. (Nishinoya hadn’t said much outside of “there’s gonna be a waterfall,” so he was expecting wilderness.) The trails were marked, and by the water slides were picnic tables and food stands (that were closed during the week) for families to gather. There were even steps carved into the mountain for people to walk on. He supposed that people wouldn’t bring their kids here if it was deadly. He’d had nothing to worry about. 

“Asahi-san!”

He snapped to attention.

“Pull back a bit.” Nishinoya made a gesture with his hand, sort of cupping it and pulling it away from his body.

“Pull back..?” He repeated, unsure of what Nishinoya meant by it. Nishinoya was at the front and Asahi was at the back of the group, meaning that they were yelling over three people.

“Like, stay about teen feet behind Eric.” Eric was the last one of Windrose, closest to Asahi.

“Oh, okay. I got you.”

It was awkward. Of course, such things were to be expected when it was their first time working together, and Nishinoya didn’t seem to mind it at all. But Asahi felt useless when every little thing had to be explained to him, especially in front of their clients.

There were times when he needed to direct one of Windrose, to get the best angle for the camera, but he was too shy to try out his broken English and he didn’t want to bother Nishinoya by asking for a translation, so he tried working around them, moving the camera this way and that. One time, Nishinoya spotted him and _frowned._ Something he hadn’t done in Asahi’s direction for the entirety of the trip, and it immediately made him feel a sense of panic.

Nishinoya directed Eric in English, making him pose exactly as Asahi needed. He was a total professional, and Asahi realized that his lack of confidence had made him embarrass himself.

Other than those few hiccups and Asahi’s many insecurities, the hike was going well. When he was able to put the camera down, Eric-san lingered alongside him to chat. He knew the most Japanese out of the group, which wasn’t much, but Asahi honored the effort by trying to not look pained as he stumbled over English words himself.

With the help of a translation app, Eric-san told him in a combination of English and Japanese, “We wanted to see a different waterfall, a wild one. Big.” He gestured with his arms. “And fast.” He accompanied this with whooshing sounds, like rushing water. “But...far. This place—nice also.” He gave a thumbs up.

Asahi had heard Nishinoya mention earlier how things never went as planned, and he’d also translated bits of conversation from Windrose about times equipment broke, or they changed plans, got lost, or ended up somewhere completely different by pure chance. Which must be scarier considering how these things often happened in places where they’d never been before, where they didn’t know the language. He could feel his eyes widening in horror at just the thought of it.

“Eric-san,” he said, unable to stop using the honorific even when Nishinoya and all three of Windrose told him he didn’t have to, “Isn’t it bad when things don’t go as planned? You’re not...worried?” Is what he thought he said in English, but he couldn’t have been sure.

Nevertheless, Eric seemed to have understood. He mumbled in English, probably trying to find the right phrase. “Anzuru yori umu ga yasushi.” It was accented, but the words came together perfectly: _It’s easier to give birth than to think about it._ Meaning that worrying about something is more painful than actually doing it.

He was so surprised to hear such a familiar phrase come from a foreigner that his immediate reaction was to laugh aloud. “Yes,” he said in Japanese, “You’re right.”

Kyle yelled something that sounded like “Woah!” followed by chatter from Josh, and a few laughs from the both of them. Assuming that something funny happened, Asahi looked to Nishinoya for an explanation.

“They’re saying it’s the first time they’ve seen you laugh.”

That just made his ears turn red, and of course, Windrose only laughed more.

Nishinoya shook his head playfully. “Don’t worry, Asahi-san. I told them we still have plenty of time left together.”

 _“Great,”_ he said sarcastically. His tone needed no translation, and the others started laughing again. He felt a bit like a clown, though he knew they were laughing with him instead of at him.

At noon, the Windrose crew took a break under the shade with some lunch and the bulky equipment, while Asahi and Nishinoya went back along some of the trails to take some extra shots. 

Asahi was extremely proud when he spotted a big green iguana on a tree trunk, and was met with a thumbs up from Nishinoya after he got a good close-up of it. Upon their return, they took their lunch break and Windrose went to check out the pools beneath the waterfall.

The El Salto waterfall was so different from the waterfalls he’d seen in Tokyo. The water flowed in a thick stream into a big pool made for swimming, and there were even water slides attached to parts of the river. Instead of being something to look at, it was something you took part in and made your own.

Asahi’s eyes lingered on Windrose from the distance as they whooped and dove into the water.

“Jealous?” Nishinoya asked teasingly, pausing over his bottle of water. “You look like you wanna swim, too.”

He blushed, looking down at his hands. “A bit.” It was hot, and the clear waves seemed so refreshing…

“We’ll get to later.” Nishinoya reassured him. “I love this job, but then sometimes I remember it’s work.” He laughed. “My sisters tell me that doing this gave me more discipline than all my years of being in school.”

Asahi could imagine that. A mischievous Noya walking through hallways unsupervised, not at all questioned by teachers just because he looked so confident, like he had every right to be there. Meanwhile, on Asahi’s first day of high school, a teacher had mistaken him for a hooligan because he got lost while trying to find the bathroom during class. School was an interesting time. 

“Asahi-san, what were you like in high school?”

“Me? I was even more shy then. I used to keep one of my eyes covered with bangs.” He cringed just thinking about it. “I never got in trouble or anything.”

“Yeah, you seem like the type,” Nishinoya said fondly.

He had no idea whether or not to take that as a compliment. He simply chalked it up to a Noya-ism. 

After a few more hours of filming, they said their goodbyes to Windrose, who had to get back to their hotel to deal with business calls.

“See you tomorrow, Asahi-san!” Eric said in Japanese, waving as they departed.

He and Nishinoya had the waterfall to themselves.

Well—not entirely to themselves. There were a few small groups of what appeared to be tourists and college students, but they weren’t particularly a bother. 

Despite being alone and work being over, Noya didn’t seem to want to put down the camera.

“Go stand in front of the waterfall!”

“Do I have to?”

The truth was, he didn’t mind, and he was sure that his friends would want to see a million photos later. He posed as Noya instructed, taking out his ponytail and pulling his hair back with his fingers.

“Try to look relaxed, Asahi-san.”

“I am relaxed!”

“Try harder. Or, uh...maybe less hard.”

The confusion in Noya’s tone made a laugh bubble out of him, shoulders shaking.

“..Yeah! Just like that.”

“Okay, okay.” Asahi chuckled, shaking his head. “Now, let me take some of you.”

They switched places, with Noya standing near the waterfall. He winked, flexed his biceps, threw up peace signs, and did just about every other pose Asahi could name. After snapping maybe a dozen, Asahi had the brilliant idea of taking a selfie together.

“We need some memories,” he said, and felt himself smiling genuinely, chest lighter than it had felt in a long time.

Once the photoshoot was finally over, they turned their attention to swimming in the sparkling water.

Too tired to paddle about, Asahi found himself floating among the waves. At some point, he almost fell asleep, which made him lose his balance and topple over, causing Nishinoya to laugh. Which made Asahi splash him, and seeking to escape, Nishinoya scrambled out of the water, walking quickly (so as not to slip or get yelled at) to the water slide.

“You won’t catch me!”

Maybe he thought that Asahi wouldn’t follow him, or maybe he was sure that he would, as he hopped onto one of the water slides and went down, whooping. Asahi was close behind, suddenly full of energy, feeling the rush of wind on his face and that feeling in your belly when you’re going too fast and loving it at the same time.

By the time they left, it was getting late. The sun hadn’t quite begun to sink into the sky, but Nishinoya wanted to leave before it got dark because of all the winding mountain-y roads.

Asahi didn’t even feel the bumps in the road, or the twists and turns. His body slunk into the car seat. Now that he’d finally stopped moving, his body took full advantage. The last thing he remembered was the quiet hums of Nishinoya to the tune of the radio.

When he woke up, they were parked back at the hotel. Noya shook his shoulder gently.

“You go rest in the room, Asahi-san. I’ll get dinner.”

He tried protesting, saying that he wanted to go out and see more, but the exhaustion nearly knocked him off his feet: a combination of time change, a day of hard work, and hours of the sun’s heat settling into his bones. So he gave up, and allowed himself to be cared for.

When he finally nestled into the comfortable hotel sheets, he found that he could not fall asleep again, could only stare at the ceiling or maybe rest his eyes.

He’d forgotten what it was like to live with someone. Another person who, when you were tired, would tell you not to worry about feeding yourself or getting yourself places. He was sure that Noya was tired, too, but he’d taken care of every aspect of this trip so far. Noya was...surprisingly responsible. 

“I got tacos!” Noya declared as he entered the room triumphantly. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He sat up. “Thanks.”

After dinner, they were too tired to go for another swim. But Asahi felt like staying in the hotel room was such a waste when they were in such a beautiful country, so they sat outside with some cool fruity drinks that Noya had bought from a convenience store.

As they sat in the reclined pool chairs, he noticed [ bushes of dahlias ](https://www.gardeningknowhow.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/dahlias.jpg) growing by the grass. He almost got up to take a picture for Suga, but the night air was so warm against his skin, his cool glass bottle sweating in his hand, and crickets singing a song in the distance, the chair so comfy, that he decided he wasn’t going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was hard to write because i’ve been looking forward to it A LOT and also because.. i have never been to mexico lmao (but hopefully i will one day *eyes emoji*)
> 
> i would once again like to give the BIGGEST thank you to [rivers](https://instagram.com/sketchingly) for the wonderful artwork, providing me with firsthand knowledge of visiting mexico, and for being an excellent beta in general. again, please check out his instagram [for closeups of the art + noya's tattoos !!](https://www.instagram.com/p/CLuTdgQgImS/)
> 
>  **flower meanings:**  
>  dahlia — national flower of Mexico, change, a lasting bond between two people
> 
> if you’d like to come chat with me, i’m most active on [instagram.](https://www.instagram.com/spade.yy/) But you can also check out my [twitter,](https://twitter.com/spade_yy) [curious cat,](https://curiouscat.me/spade_yy) or [my carrd](https://spadebrigade.tumblr.com/>tumblr%20!</a>%20\(%20all%20links%20can%20be%20found%20on%20<a%20) )


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